


And in the end, we matter

by consultingbeekeepers, LondonFan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eurus Holmes is not Sherlock's sister, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, POV John Watson, Post Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Self-Loathing, So don't worry, TFP never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-17 00:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12353337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingbeekeepers/pseuds/consultingbeekeepers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonFan/pseuds/LondonFan
Summary: "He's making a funny face," Eurus Holmes says as she raises the gun, pointing it at his head. "I think I'll put a hole in it."However, it's not loaded with a tranquiliser to incapacitate him temporarily, but a metal bullet that almost kills him. The realisation of that truth is hard to take in, resulting in a terrible wound and an even more terrible fight with the person who saved him from the eternal darkness. It's just one of many things John has to make up for and he knows it's only so many times Sherlock can forgive him …





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers and welcome to a new story! 
> 
> Although the finale of S4 was more than disappointing, at least we got lots of material to write about, to re-write or to ignore altogether, which is exactly what Isy and I have been doing these past 10 months. It has taken a long time to write this fix-it, but despite work, uni and other things that swallowed our time and creativity, we finally finished it. We truly hope you enjoy it (more than S4 anyway), that we did the characters some justice and let them have what they deserve, although it takes some time and nerves to get there. 
> 
> Special thanks go to johnandsherlocks, love-in-mind-palace and oscarw for helping me when writer's block hit me and creativity decided to go on vacation more often than not. You're the best <3
> 
> Now, have fun reading!

Losing a person you are close to is never easy. Even if they have told you several times that caring is a dangerous disadvantage, even if you are used to saying goodbye to said people due to your daily work, even though it never really worked out with you and relationships – even then, the loss of a person hurts. A lot. You're scared and sad and angry and confused, and disappointed, and you feel empty inside. It's even worse if you lose that person not once, not twice, but three times. Once, when you watch them jump off a roof to save you. Twice, when you get married and don’t see them for what feels like forever; and thrice, when you get shot, and lie on their sister's floor, bleeding out.

"He's making a funny face," Eurus Holmes says as she raises the gun, pointing it at his head. "I think I'll put a hole in it."

John's eyes widen even more than they already had. Thousands of thoughts run through his head, each one trying to overwhelm the other, to gain the upper hand. It makes him dizzy.

A shot.

He closes his eyes and lets out the breath he has been holding.

"Sorry," he hears the woman say. His eyes fly open. She chuckles gruesomely as if she has done something incredibly hilarious just now. "Got a little ahead of myself. I _keep_ working on it, but you know. Resisting the urge gets harder every time.”

She looks at her gun with a smile. It is different than the one she had put on on the bus. How could he have fallen for this? _How?_

"Headshots end everything too quickly," she muses, raising her eyebrows.

John is lost for words. Any wrong word might end his life. Instead, he swallows hard. His throat is as dry as the desert on a hot summer's day.

“We might as well prolong everyone’s agony. What do you think?”

"Why–" John's voice breaks over the hoarseness of it. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" she asks him full of wonder.

John shakes his head, desperately trying to get his breathing under control.

"Because," she steps closer, pointing the gun at his chest, "it's fun," she whispers. "I advise you not to move …"

"What–" She pulls the trigger.

A sharp pain shoots through him; the bullet tears his shirt apart at the seam, grazing his skin. He hunches, his hand flying to the wound on his arm.

He feels another shot before the sound of it reaches his ears.

John staggers and doubles over, convulsing in pain. His breathing is ragged; his vision goes blurry. He has no strength to scream. The second bullet has pushed through his chest. Or his abdomen? He cannot tell.

"You silly humans," the woman's voice murmurs. "Never listening, never doing what you're told."

He tries to press both hands to the wound. There is blood everywhere. On his fingers, his shirt, the floor.  
"It could have been just a graze." She kneels beside him. "Too bad you moved."

John keeps pressing against the wound, desperately trying to breathe in and out steadily, and failing miserably.  
In the pocket of his trousers, his phone starts to buzz.

"I'll take that for you, shall I?" A hand reaches for the phone. "Oh," she laughs. "It's Sherlock. Funny coincidence, isn't it?" She accepts the call.

Someone starts talking frantically on the other end, but John doesn't understand a word. For endless moments, he only hears his own wild heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," she says in her northern English accent. "But your friend is a little preoccupied at the moment." 

Another sleazy smirk appears on her lips, but just within the blink of an eye, everything fades to black.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

This place is dark. Very dark. Darker than a night without stars or the moon. He can hear Sherlock's voice.

_The east wind takes us all in the end._

_What’s that?_

Slowly the blurry picture clears up. Black and white fade into soft colours.

_It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me._

The tarmac. Shaking hands. Sherlock was about to–

_Eurus. It’s Greek, isn’t it?_

Sherlock. He is sitting in his chair. 221B.

_Yeah, literally, the God of the East Wind._

He is with him.

_You turned my sister into a ghost story …_

_The roads we walk have demons beneath. And yours have been waiting for a very long time._

John sees a bright light in the distance; as though he has to make his way through a tunnel, reach the end and step into the light, but he all but succumbs to the darkness.

Sherrinford. The prison. An asylum? Most certainly. There is the woman who calls herself Eurus Holmes.

How could someone growing up in such a loving family as Sherlock’s become this way? He finds himself wondering. Mycroft and Sherlock are extraordinary, but they aren't manipulative monsters.

_Vatican Cameos._

_In a minute._

There is no time. Not a minute. Not even a bloody second!

_Don’t be alarmed. I’m here now. I’m here now._

_Hello, my name is Jim Moriarty. Welcome to the final problem._

_It’s okay. He’s dead_ , Sherlock says.  
_He doesn’t sound dead_ , he answers.

_He recorded lots of little messages for me before he died. Did you know his brother was a stationmaster? I think he was always jealous._

His _brother_? 

There is a gun in his hand, then. He has to control this. He _has to control_ this. Stop it. Stop it! STOP IT!

The governor is dead. John is beginning to think he is on the brink of that, too. The light seems to move farther away. Or is he moving away from it? He cannot run. He is merely able to watch himself in his dream. Is it even a dream?

 _It must be_ , John thinks.

So it’s for somebody who loves somebody.

 _It’s for somebody who loves Sherlock. This is all about you. Everything here._ / Of course it’s about Sherlock. Everything is about Sherlock. _So who loves you?_

 _No! No! No! No! No!_ Sherlock is screaming.

Let me wake up. Let me wake up. Let me wake up. Let me wake up.

_Soldiers? / Soldiers._

_You shame us all. You shame the family name. So, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him. / Stop it. / Look at him, what is he? Nothing more than a distraction, a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another._

He wants to scream, too. Yet all he can do was watch himself break because it was the truth. Sherlock would find somebody else. He is replaceable. Especially after everything he has done. It shouldn't be a very difficult choice …

_Five minutes. It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us._

The girl on the plane keeps reappearing.

_The whole plane is shaking. / It’s just turbulence._

Shock.

_My ears hurt._

Pain.

"John! John? Can you hear me?" The voice sounds more real.

_Let me wake up, God, please …_

“John!”

_Sherlock …_

The water is climbing higher. He is going to drown. He is going to bleed out. He is going to die!

There is the faint feeling of someone hovering above him. He wants to reach out. _Just let me reach out!_

 _I’m going to find you. I_ am _finding you!_

_Well, hurry up, please, because I don’t have long!_

Let me live. Let him hear me. 

_Sherlock, there’s something you need to know._

Pressure on his wound.

_I never had a best friend. I had no-one. I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

_You’re high above us, all alone in the sky, and you understand everything except how to land._

The pain grows more intense with every second ticking by. His pulse must be erratic. It is only a question of time until his lungs will give out …

_Please, God, let me live._

"John!" Sherlock. "Please," he gasps.

_It’s too late now._

_No, it’s not. It’s_ not _too late._

 _Open your eyes._ “John, please wake up! _Wake up_!" Sherlock presses his hands to his chest so hard it feels as if he is being split in two. He is aching all over. His head, his eyes, his torso.

“Just a little longer, John. Just–“ His voice breaks. “If you can hear me, please, … _open your eyes_.”

He wants to. God, he wants to.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” Sherlock’s voice is closer now. “You can’t die. You can’t leave me!” A weight settles on his forehead. What is– Something wet falls onto his face. He is crying. “It’s _not_ too late. It can’t be. It _can’t_ be …” It grows quieter, fading into silence, darkness, nothingness.

It threatens to swallow him whole. But then the pressure on his wound increases. He can hear sirens. Bright light is flashing behind the windows.

_Remember me._

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

Black. That’s all there is. He opens his eyes, but everything stays black. He blinks. No change. Has he lost his eyesight?

Panic runs through him.

Where the hell is he?

He turns to his left and sees the remnants of what used to be their flat – their home. In pieces. Everything in shatters. Shards everywhere. The remainders of Sherlock’s compositions on the floor. The burnt wallpaper. The broken table and the smoked floor. Covered in dust and ash and long gone-out flames.

He is kneeling on the ground, looking for things the explosion had left in one piece. There is Sherlock's skull. Slightly burnt, the colour of the bones is darker now, brown. Sherlock finds the bull that had been hanging on their wall ever since John had moved in. He spots the headphones he always wore and puts them to their rightful place.

Step by step.

He kneels on the floor. Sherlock holds Rosie in his arms. He is smiling, waving, pointing at John before he hands her over with a wide grin. John presses a kiss to her head as he holds her close.

He keeps hearing Mary's voice in his head.

 _I know what you could become._ Was it this? He asks himself.

Molly comes round and looks happy. How can she be happy after what she had to go through? After what Sherlock had to put her through?

John shakes his head and feels a sharp pain shoot through his temples. The little girl's voice keeps haunting him. Why does it sound different from Eurus' voice if it has been her all the time? Why does she look different? Why would the driver of the plane fall asleep in the first place? How could he–

He tears at his hair. The pain grows stronger.

She is a dream. A dream!

It–

John squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

There is a hand on his back, hauling him around. His eyes flew open.

Mary. Mary dressed in Sherlock's clothes. He can hear steps approaching in the darkness.

_Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here!_

_Who you really are, it doesn’t matter_ , she says.

What?

_It doesn’t matter._

He takes a step back, bumping into somebody else. He turns around.

Eurus; a gun in her hand.

_No!_

They close in on him.

 _Get away from me!_ Run. He had to run. The pain in his head worsens, crawling down to his chest now, leaving him unable to breathe.

_John!_

Sherlock. At the end of the endless tunnel. His silhouette stood out in the bright light, coming from behind him. He needs to get there. He needs–

The barrel of a gun presses against his back, his chest, his head. Someone else has joined the circle. _The game is over, Johnny boy_ , someone whispers into his ear. He can hear the sneer in the voice. He doesn't need to look to see his face.

He takes a deep, stuttering breath and runs.

There is a shot. Then another. Flying through the air without resistance. John's heart is racing faster than he can run. He closes his eyes and ignores the pain, the dull ache inside him. His legs are wobbly, but he keeps going. A third loud boom reaches his ears, numbing him, deafening him. His pace falters.

_John…_

Sherlock's voice is close, probably echoing in his head, but he is still too far away. John feels that the faster he tries to run, the more the distance between Sherlock and him increases. 

The bullets keep coming. One after another. How many do they have left?

The sound is incredibly loud every time, and he is lucky none of them has hit him yet. The wound in his chest stings. Aching, bleeding. He is losing more blood with every step he takes, every metre he left behind him. And most of the tunnel still lies ahead of him.

  

.

.

.

 

Darkness.

That's all he sees when he wakes up.

Darkness, and just a tiny bit of light coming in from what he assumes to be a window.

He feels utterly whacked; his mouth is dry, his lips chapped, his eyes as heavy as lead. His ears are ringing, so loud, so loud...

He doesn't know where he is, or when. He just knows that he _is_ , and at the moment, that feels quite overwhelming on its own.

He blinks and tries to make out where he is.

Something.

Anything.

His vision is still blurred, and the more he blinks in an attempt to see more clearly, the more his head hurts. He's lying in bed. A very uncomfortable one. Must be a hospital.

He tries to remember what happened, but even his memories are a blur. A sharp pain runs through his chest, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

Some more blinking. His eyelids threaten to fall shut again. Just a bit more sleep … just … a tiny bit

… more …

But he's a doctor. He knows he has to stay awake, fight the urge to go back under. He tries to turn his head, but there is a sharp pain in his neck. Instinctively, his hand shoots up to touch the hurting spot, but he feels a slight resistance and as if something is stuck underneath his skin. He peers at it closely, realises he is hooked up to several machines.

This is the moment he hears the soft beeping for the first time. Heart monitor. He tries to get the display in focus. It takes a while, but he sees the figures eventually. Doesn't look too bad. His pulse is going steady at 50 beats per minute, a bit low but considering he just slept, that's perfectly fine. His blood pressure could be a little higher.

When his head sinks back against the pillow, his entire body is aching. His back and neck feel terribly stiff. He tries to turn to his other side with little luck, but his neck thankfully allows him to crane his head just a bit further. It is still hard to identify the silhouettes in the darkness, but the blur is dissipating slowly.

His throat feels horribly dry, though, and swallowing is hard. He finds himself coughing, and the pain in his chest worsens instantly. He presses a hand to the spot that hurts the most, but that only increases the pain. He exhales through his teeth and swallows hard.

Suddenly, someone speaks and cuts through the silence. “God, John, you’re awake …”

That voice. A spark of recognition shoots through John's brain, waking up every neuron there is, firing, gaining data, looking for information. He knows that voice, knows it well.

A hand grabs his own. It's larger and more elegant, and cold.

"John?" There is that voice again; deep and rumbling.

"John, please." Ah yes. His name. John.

"Are you all right? Please say something." The voice sounds worried and a bit sleepy. That person, a man, must have been asleep.

Just like himself.

He sniggers silently. God, him accessing all these information, that must be what Sherlock feels like when he goes out and deduces stuff. 

Sherlock.

The hand that had taken his own tightens its grip. He looks up to where the man is standing. He wants to form words, but it's so painful with such a dry mouth and his body and chest aching all over. "Sh…," he begins, swallowing once more. "Sh'lock…"

"Yes, it's me," Sherlock replies, his voice sounding overly concerned, though maybe he just imagines that. "I'm here."

John makes out his form a little bit clearer now, but this damn darkness wouldn't take pity on him. "Wa… water, please…" he whispers, and then the cold hand is gone and so is the silhouette, saying something that sounds like, "of course."

A glass is held to his lips, refreshing and calming, and then it's tipped carefully, so some water flows into John's mouth, drop by drop. Sherlock seems to be very troubled, not wanting to have John deal with too many things at once.

The water feels fresh in his mouth, his dried-out skin coming back to life. At least a little. Just like him.

His head falls back into the pillow, and he exhales. Sherlock's hand finds his again, clasping it tightly. John wishes to respond in kind but only manages a weak wriggle of fingers. It's enough for Sherlock, though.

His lids. He doesn't want to go back to sleep … 

John's lids start dropping again, hanging heavy over his eyes. It seems so lovely, the idea of floating back to sleep, being lulled in by comforting dreams…

He hopes he doesn’t have to go back into that horribly dark pit that engulfed him and wouldn’t let him go – but he is tired, so tired …

He closes his eyes and is pulled back into a deep slumber, and finally, the burning, raging pain in his limbs and chest subsides a little.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

For the next few days, John drops out of sleep and back again several times. He's only ever awake for a few minutes, but during these, Sherlock always sits by his bed, holding his hand, looking at him with worry in his eyes.

He's always there.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

The next time he wakes up properly, he feels drained – in spite of all the hours he slept.

His gaze falls onto the man beside his bed, sitting in the same chair with the same sad expression on his face. He withdraws his hand, evidently unsure if he is allowed to do this when John is awake. 

John tries to reach for his hand and catch it. It has been the only constant thing in John's life for the last couple of days. Whenever he woke, he felt Sherlock's fingers drawing soothing circles on his skin. Concentrating on the gentle touches he never thought Sherlock would be capable of – not towards another human being, not voluntarily, and certainly not towards him – he always feels drowsier. But this time, he will stay awake. Sherlock usually never lets people touch him, and he hates initiating contact himself. He'll cherish it for as long as he's permitted.

“Hey,” John whispers.

Sherlock's face lights up, and although that man has lines around his eyes from not getting any sleep whatsoever, it's the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. He's smiling so brightly and so genuinely.

"Hey," Sherlock says back, voice just as muted as John's. "How are you feeling?"

“Tired,” John whispers; it’s a little easier to speak now. “My chest hurts… amongst other things… ”

"Do you remember what happened?" Sherlock's asks in a hushed tone. With his head still buzzing, it feels just right.

John shakes his head as far as that’s possible. He tries to think of what happened to him, but that hurts, too. "I went to my therapist's. That's … all I remember." He sounds sleepy, still having slight trouble speaking with the numbing ache everywhere.

“Tell me what happened, … please …”

"You got shot and fell into a coma," Sherlock tells him quietly. His eyes are full of concern but also of relief.

John opens his mouth, the questions double and triple in his head, but Sherlock goes on before he gets the chance to speak. "I'll spare you all the details for now. You should rest – doctor's orders."

“At least tell me how Rosie is,” John pleads, wanting him to keep talking, to drown out the loud buzzing inside his head.

“She’s fine, John, she’s safe. You both are.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and soothing. "We're taking good care of her. Just as you would." 

John smiles sadly, almost huffing out what he's saying. "I hope not as I would," he tells him honestly.

Sherlock’s brows knit in a frown, but before he can say anything, a soft knock on the door disturbs them. A nurse pokes her head into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we've seen on our monitors at the nurses’ station that Dr Watson is fully awake now. I am afraid I have to ask you to leave, Mr …?”

"Holmes," Sherlock replies quietly.

"Mr Holmes." The nurse enters and starts working on John's monitors. "We'll have to run a couple of vital stats tests and Dr Watson needs to rest."

"No, let him stay," John protests weakly, voice hoarse. "I've had enough rest in the past days, I–" 

"I am afraid we cannot let him stay." The nurse is insistent. She looks at Sherlock who rises. He grabs John's hand and squeezes it before he says, "I'll be back tomorrow. I promise." 

John lets him go reluctantly. There are so many questions he wants to ask, so many answers he needs, but most importantly, he doesn't want to be alone right now.

“All right,” he murmurs as his hand sinks back onto the sheets.

Heavy.

Fatigued.

He hates doctors – and their orders.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

John doesn't take much notice of the hustle and bustle around him, various doctors and nurses checking his blood pressure, his pulse, his eye movements, his reflexes… He just lets them have their way with him, cooperates where he needs to, but in the end, it all goes by in a flash.

He declines dinner, saying he is not hungry. That night, he doesn't sleep well at all, restlessly tossing his duvet about. He can't find peace of mind, keeps thinking about what was and what is and what will be, and by God, he misses Sherlock's steady presence by his bedside.

Thus, in the morning, he wakes early, with heavy bags under his eyes, his eyeballs red under translucent lids. He waits for Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t come.

It’s barely six; breakfast is not before seven thirty. He raises his hands to his face, pressing his palms against his eyes, wincing as he does so. His chest feels like a bomb, about to explode whenever he does a wrong movement.

His chest. 

 _You got shot and fell into a coma_ , Sherlock’s words echo in his head.

He got shot in the chest.

_Oh god._

He takes a deep breath, but even that hurts. He feels the panic rise. It races through his body, stirring the blood in his veins, leaving him out of breath.

He wants to remember what happened, but every thought that dares to look back into the past feels like an arrow shooting through his skull. Instead, he looks down to his sternum covered by a thin hospital gown. He feels the thick, itchy bandages, and lets out a frustrated huff.

He wishes he knew how the hole in his chest got there. The desperate need to get his memories back and not being able to see anything but darkness, the feeling of being forced to stay in this bed, in this room – this white, sterile room – alone with his nagging thoughts, not even knowing why or how make him want to scream; release tension.

The pressure on his chest feels as though death has got his grip on him finally. If it’s not the injury itself that kills him, the pain and the uncertainty definitely will.

He tries to soothe his nerves, taking slow, deliberately measured breaths, but it’s in vain.

Lying still with closed eyes, forcing himself to think of nothing doesn’t do much good either.

John is convinced it cannot get any worse, but when his shoulder starts stinging in unison with his wound next to his sternum, all the air leaves his lungs. An image of the hot, dirty desert of Afghanistan comes to life in before his eyes and the echoing sound of firing guns. He falls to the ground as his ears buzz; he feels drips of blood splashing around him. It must have been similar when a bullet breached his ribcage. 

Piercing pangs keep reverberating through his head. It’s overwhelming; too much to bear. Now he knows how Sherlock must feel when his brain refuses to shut down.

The pain doesn’t ebb away although the morphine drip is set on the highest level. Will it ever stop sending twinges through his body? He thinks of the mess this brings with it, the therapy, the prohibitions ( _'No heavy lifting, young man!'_ is what they explicitly told Sherlock after his chest injury), the phantom pain on bad days, rainy days, stormy days … It’s getting harder to keep his breathing even.

He has seen people die around him on the battlefield; he has shot one of his comrades to spare him the suffering. He has seen blood and fear and death, and he has overcome it. He has been through worse, has acquired a bad shoulder and a limp along the way, PTSD and nightmares, episodic depression and an alcohol problem; this can hardly be a huge deal.

And yet he is so tired. He is tired of fighting. He is tired of lifting himself up again and again because what for?

How could he have been so careless? Getting himself shot again? He wouldn't be able to take care of Rosie properly. Not that he has ever been particularly good at that, and now he would be even worse. He would impose on both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson because he'll need help handling his own bloody life. Why do they even care about him? What do they see in him after all this time? All the mess he brought into their lives? 

John fiddles with his fingers nervously as he thinks about what has happened and what it has made of him, so lost in thought that he jerks when the door to his room suddenly opens, and Sherlock enters.

"Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost," Sherlock makes a forced attempt at a joke. John doesn't even manage a giggle. Sherlock takes his usual seat next to John's bed and squeezes his arm in greeting. "John, hey, are you with me?" 

John shakes his head to clear the cobwebs away. "Yes, yes, of course, Sherlock. I'm sorry." He clears his throat. "I'm… glad to see you again." 

Sherlock smiles gently. "Me too."

John sighs, waiting for Sherlock to ask the infamous question, but he doesn’t. “Don't you wanna know how I'm feeling?”

Sherlock lowers his gaze to his hands for a brief moment before he locks eyes with him once more. "I already know how you're feeling." 

"Do you?" John answers, "what, are you a mind-reader, too, now?"

Sherlock's mouth quirks, "I dabble in it." John merely shakes his head.

A companionable silence stretches out between the two of them, but John breaks it at some point. “Have you finished renovating the flat on your own, then?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “… Renovating the flat?” he repeats, dumbfounded. “Why would I need to renovate the flat? If this is about Rosie, I can assure you there are no experiments within her reach–“

“Yes, you’d better keep those well away from her,” John tells him insistently. “But I’m not talking about that. I mean after the drone and the explosion, … everything she did – Had we already finished renovating? I can’t really remember.” He tries to think back to when they tried to find the bits and pieces that survived the explosion, but he can’t progress forward from that.

“I’m– what drone? There was no drone. And what explosion? John, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember the drone she sent us? It blew up the entire flat!”

“Hold on, what drone? Who sent us a drone?”

“Eurus!”

"Eurus…?"

"You can't tell me you don't remember… You just pretend not to know, so I don't get all worked up about this," John tells him, sitting up a little, but a sharp pang shoots through his chest, and he refrains from any other movement.

“John, I truly have no idea what you are talking about.”

“That’s a first…” John hisses still in pain; he doesn’t believe him. “All right then, at least tell me how I ended up with a bullet in my chest. I don’t remember much of that either. Was it a case? Some serial killer we were chasing down?"

“What? No, we– I found you at your therapist's house. You were bleeding out." His expression turns sorrowful. "I can't believe she almost killed you."

John hesitates. “But you said that was a tranquilliser…”

He could get used to this confused face if it weren’t for the grotesqueness of the situation.

“A tran–”

“Yes! Your sister shot me with a tranquilliser, and then she got back to that mental asylum in Sherrinford as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Mental asylum– Sherrinford– John, I don’t have a sister.”

“You do; you simply rewrote your memories because she utterly traumatised you when you were children. You said you deleted her after she killed Redbeard– I mean, your friend.”

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “How do you know about Redbeard?”

"Well, you… you told me about him–"Sherlock’s eyes are hard on his, threatening to pierce through his skull. “I never told you about him.”

Sherlock’s eyes are hard on his, threatening to pierce through his skull. “I never told you about him.”

“You did, and she drowned him in the well!“

“What well? John, you’re not making any sense. Redbeard was old and was run over by a lorry!”

“The well in Musgrave!” John says exasperatedly. “And he was not a dog, he–“

“Of course he was a dog! He was my dog, an Irish Setter.”

“You don’t have to keep denying it, so I keep calm. You only make it worse by telling me I’m not making any sense. This is what happened! Don’t you remember?”

“No, because it never _did_. This is very likely to occur during a coma. You try to make sense of what happened to you and dream of utter nonsense," Sherlock tells him, attempting to convey this calmly.

"It's not nonsense! I– I know what happened. My therapist… is your sister. There is a photo on one of her business cards in my wallet. Look at her and tell me she's not," John says, persistent. It was real. It felt too real to be just a dream.

Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave his for a long moment, but he gives in. “All right,” he answers, “but only if you calm down. All this agitation isn’t good for you.”

John exhales slowly through his nose and then sniffs. "Look at the card."  
Sherlock finds John's wallet he left back pocket of his jeans and takes out the small business card of––

“That’s her …” he whispers. “It’s–“

“Your sister.”

“It’s Faith Smith.”

“What?”

“Or rather the woman who came to my flat and pretended to be Faith Smith. It’s her, John!” 

John’s mind buzzes. His heart seethes. “Exactly, so she could figure you out, to find your weaknesses, and then she went back to Sherrinford as though nothing happened!”

Sherlock puts the card on the table beside him. “You need to rest.”

“No.” John’s tone is harder and colder than he intends it to be. “What I need is for you to tell me the truth for once in my life!”

“This is the truth, John. It’s not my fault you cannot accept it.”

“When will you ever stop lying to me?!” John counters, on edge now. His fingers dig into the rough bed sheets.

Sherlock flinches when John’s raises his voice, drawing back a few steps, seemingly alarmed, but before John can truly figure out what he has done, Sherlock’s gaze has left him and is now fixed on the floor. Then he reaches for his coat and says, “get better soon, John,” before he sets off.

"That's so like you," John scoffs, not even knowing what he feels at that moment; emptiness, anger, pain, confusion, but most of all guilt about what he says next, "walking out of my life without an explanation."

Sherlock seems to know precisely what he alludes to. "This is hardly the place nor the time to talk about this _yet again_. Besides, you might want to remember that I've apologised many times for what I did. I gave you an explanation which you refuse to accept. I thought your stubbornness succumbs to your reason as a doctor, but apparently, that is not the case."

He’s already at the door. 

“You want me to be honest with you? Fine. You’re right. If I had told you the truth back then, all this wouldn’t have happened. You wouldn’t have met Mary, I wouldn’t have got shot, or you, we wouldn’t have been betrayed, lied to, hurt over and over again; not because of the truth you hold so high but because we’d already be dead. You at the hands of Moriarty, and I…” he trails off and swallows hard. “The truth would have got us nowhere.”

John can barely hold his gaze. He can’t mean he would have– 

“You’re not the only one who has been hurt along the way, John.”

With that, he disappears through the door which falls into its hinge much harder than it has to. His coat billows behind him as he rushes outside. John barely has time to feel guilty about his sharp, edged words that have cut into his best friend's heart like knives. That's exactly how he feels. Numb. Unable to stop the bleeding. He hates his inability to control his temper, his brain that is always slower than his tongue, but most of all himself. 

Sherlock nearly bumps into Mycroft who enters John's room directly after him, eyes trailing after his brother.

"My, my," he says with an exasperated sigh, turning to John. "I would have never taken my brother for the emotional kind. But then again, he always is different when it comes to you, Doctor Watson." He smiles his infamous smile that is supposed to be friendly but too fake to seem anything else but forced. "I have come to see you and wish you well."

"You," John snarls with salty tears in his eyes, "are literally the last person on earth I want to see right now." 

"I assume you mean 'figuratively', my good doctor," Mycroft retorts, still smiling. "And it saddens me to hear my visit does not bring you joy."

"When has it ever?"

Mycroft clears his throat, swirling his umbrella. "Fine, then, Doctor Watson, I was indeed merely trying to show you that I am, in fact, kind-hearted and not as bad a person as you make me out to be, but as I am clearly not wanted here, I can only leave you with my best wishes. I'll be checking up on you regularly." He points the tip of his umbrella towards one of the security cameras on the ceiling of the hall pointing towards John’s room and then saunters out.

It’s quiet, again.

 

.

.

.

 

_I'm an idiot. Why am I such an idiot?_

Sherlock jumped from that rooftop to save his life, … or so he says. He believed it was solely an inconvenience to have him tampering in the affair.

All the while he has been so busy with his own pain and his own loss that he forgot that Sherlock had seen war himself. He knows what it's like to fight in one, having seen and done enough that must be very much like it when he hunted down Moriarty's network. He wonders if he'll ever tell him everything that's happened in those two years if he would ever open up to him about it.

_Will you ever trust me again after everything I did?_

John swallows down a sob. 

Sherlock is right. John isn't the only one who suffered from the war, from the injury, from losing people, and yet all he has been thinking about was himself. He hasn't lost everything; he still has Sherlock and Rosie and all the other people who care about him who he keeps pushing away because he cannot deal with their pitying looks in their eyes. At least that's what he's seen in them until now. Maybe it wasn't pity. Maybe it was empathy.

This thought twists his gut and tears at his heart even more. 

John wasn’t the only one who has been forced to fight on his own all this time. He thought that because Sherlock had Mycroft watching over him, he was privileged, but was he really? In the end, it had been John that Sherlock had chosen, chosen to trust, chosen to move in with, chosen to save and be saved by. Or from?

John presses his palms to his eyes. He should have been there when it mattered, but instead, he has become the person Sherlock should be protected from, after all the pain he suffered because of him, the spiteful words and accusations he had to endure.

Yet he has still been too proud to say sorry. Or was it the guilt that has prevented him from doing so? An apology wouldn’t fix anything, but it was a start. That’s what Ella told him once when Harry came up in one of their sessions. 

He will make it up to Sherlock. He is aware that it’s presumably too much to achieve in a lifetime, but by God, he will at least try …

The door to John's room opens once more and pulls him out of his determined thoughts, followed by a knock and a familiar "Yoo-hoo!"

"Mrs Hudson!" John exclaims, quickly wiping at his eyes. He is really glad to see her.

"How do you feel, poor darling?" She tuts and wipes his sweat-slicked hair from his brow. "I would make you a cuppa if this hospital had any way of doing so." She puts her hands on her hips, looking around. "How do you feel?"

John sighs. "I've been in a coma, Mrs H. I feel like I've been to hell and back." He rubs a hand over his brow.

She takes a seat in the chair – previously occupied by Sherlock – and takes on a stern look. "I hate to say this, but that's where you belong for bringing that poor man to tears!"

"What?" John stares at her. 

"Sherlock, I mean!" Worry clouds the lady's face, and she plays with her fingernails nervously. "I've seen come home earlier. He wouldn't even say hello to me, can you imagine that?" She tilts her head, a mixture of concern and anger crossing her face.

"And he… he cried?"

"Well, of course he did!" Mrs Hudson says with another tut, leaning back in the chair, toying with her necklace. "Pretending to be all cold and unapproachable, but I've known him for aeons, and I know when that man is distraught and tries to hide it."

He thought he couldn't regret what he'd said any more, but he was wrong. He feels even guiltier now. Sherlock's eyes were wet when he left, but he didn't see him cry. Just thinking about it takes him back to the morgue. 

John closes his eyes, desperately wishing that that image would leave his mind.

"He's been here all the time." Mrs Hudson's voice brings him back.

“Sorry?”

"He hasn't spent a single night at home, not even once. He's been sitting here the entire time except when he came back to take care of little Rosie. From the day you got shot two weeks ago until now. Sometimes he even brought her here," she tells him. "Towards the end of the second week, he asked me to look after your daughter and to bring him new clothes because he thought you were waking up soon and wouldn't leave this room."

Her words cut like a dagger through John's heart. He shouldn't have said what he did. He really shouldn't have. And those parting words… God. If he is correct, then Sherlock implied he truly would have committed suicide if Moriarty had killed him.

"Jesus." John rubs a hand over his face. "My phone, Mrs Hudson, could you hand me my phone, please?"

Her expression softens. "Of course, dear." She gets up, fumbles in the drawer beside John’s bed and fetches his phone. "I'll be back later, shall I? I'm just so glad to see you awake and well!" She squeezes his hand, and with a wink, she is out the door.

John turns on his phone.

 

30th January 2017, 05:35 pm

_Sherlock._

_Please, if you read this, answer._

 

He doesn’t receive a reply.

He _really_ screwed up.

 

30th January 2017, 05:40 pm

_I shouldn’t have said any of what I said. I’m sorry._

 

He’s not good at this. Not in the slightest.

He doesn’t know what else to say. He could say I’m sorry again, but it wouldn’t make a difference. When Sherlock is upset, he never replies. He usually shuts himself in his room or plays the violin.

He sets his phone down on the little table beside the bed. It remains silent for a long time.

John has already drifted off to sleep when it pings. It's the special notification he has set for when Sherlock texts, and he is immediately wide-awake. It's way past midnight. John excitedly thumbs in his passcode, misses because of trembling fingers, then taps the new message alert.

 

31st January 2017, 00:53 am 

**I am here now. SH**

 

31st January 2017, 00:54 am

_Thank God._

_Sherlock, I'm sorry for what I said._

 

_31st January 2017, 00:55 am_

_Are you okay? Are you safe?_

 

31st January 2017, 00:57 am

**Yes. SH**

 

31st January 2017, 00:58 am

 _Listen, w_ _hat I said._ _I didn't mean it._   _Not like that._

 

_31st January 2017, 01:00 am_

_I didn’t mean to bring all this up again, but_

 

_31st January 2017, 01:02 am_

_I'm not in a good place at the moment._

 

31st January 2017, 01:10 am

**I noticed. SH**

 

For a long time, no other message follows, and John doesn't know what to reply. He wishes to say so much more, apologise properly, but he cannot find the right words. He cannot find words at all.

 

31st January 2017, 01:13 am

 _But we both aren't, right?_ _I just hope you know I'm sorry._ _And that I’ll try to make it up to you._

 

_31st January 2017, 01:14 am_

_Please._

 

John waits for ten minutes, but there’s no answer.

With a sigh, he puts the phone down again. Why can he never get it right? Not once?

He doesn’t know what time it is when he finally falls asleep, but he’s too tired to check.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

Sherlock doesn’t visit the next day. Or one following. Or the one after that.

John feels terrible.

The injury still hurts, but he keeps the morphine as low as possible. He sleeps a lot but doesn't eat much. Most of the time, regret engulfs him, threatening to swallow him up.

He wants to text Sherlock again, but he knows it’s pointless. If he wanted to see him, he would do so. So instead, John spends the days watching the raindrops running down the windows, the clouds fly by, talking to the nurses and his doctor.

Mrs Hudson visits again and brings Rosie along. It brightens up his mood, and he finds his face aching because he smiles so much. At least she's well.

“Sherlock and I are taking care of her,” his landlady tells him.

That sounds funny in John's ears. He boops Rosie on the nose, trying to imagine Sherlock doing just that. She giggles.

Mrs Hudson replies enthusiastically. "He makes a wonderful father for the little one. She even started calling him Papa."

"She what?!" To John, it seems as if the only words he has been saying these past few days have been "what" and "how" and "why.” He feels like he has come back into a world where he understands not a single thing.

Mrs Hudson chuckles lightly. "You should see the two of them together. Sherlock loves her. Absolutely adorable! The other day, they were playing with dolls. It seemed like Sherlock was much more into it than our sweet Rosie was! Oh, if only I knew how to work with those new phones, I would have taken a photo and shown you!"

“I'd have paid good money for that,” John says with a sad smile. At least Rosie is taken care of. For a moment, he wonders if he should text Sherlock exactly that but thinks better of it.

He misses him.

And Rosie.

She reaches for his nose and makes him laugh. He misses having her around so much. Hearing her little gurgling noises, her giggles and her making up words of her own. The way she makes a mess of herself when eating a meal and the way she falls asleep when John reads to her in the evenings; her soft snores.

God, he wants to leave this place and go home.

But according to the doctors, it would still take some time.

Too long.

He wishes Sherlock would come back. Whenever he hears someone walk past, his eyes fly to the door. But it’s never him; and every time, something inside him starts stinging even worse than the wound does. So he sits and waits and sleeps and eats, and the hours tick by so, so slowly …

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

The days pass in a blur. Every day, it's the same routine. A nurse comes in, checks his bandages, cleans and changes them every second day, asks how he feels, leaves the room again. At 8 o'clock sharp, breakfast is brought in, always consisting of two dry and hard pieces of bread, one small piece of butter and a little tub with jam in it. Coffee, too, tasting like water. Then someone helps John go to the bathroom, get cleaned up. Nothing to do until lunch. Maybe physiotherapy at noon, sometimes occupational therapy to help the scar heal. Nap. Watch telly. Occasionally a visitor or two. Never Sherlock. Dinner. Sleep.

When John can finally leave the hospital, he is more than happy to.

A giant pile of paperwork is handed to him by the nurse when he is discharged, as well as a card with an appointment written on it. "To check if everything's going all right with you," she clarifies.

"Right. Ta." John is about to turn on his heels and just _leave_ when the woman calls after him.

"Wait. Is there no-one to pick you up? Shall I call you a cab?" 

John shakes his head. "No, but thanks. I prefer a bit of a walk, actually. It's not too far."

"But you shouldn't be carrying that heavy bag there," she insists. "You should have someone to pick you up! Where is that fellow I've seen here every day I was on duty?" 

John frowns. "Who?"

"You tell me!" The nurse, Rebecca according to her name tag, puts her hands on her hips, looking stern. "Tall guy, fluffy, dark hair, looming outside the room every night. Always looking gloomy and upset at the same time."

"... Sherlock," John whispers.

He thinks of Sherlock sitting there all night. Hesitating to come in? Too upset, so his initial plan faltered?

Did he come to the hospital with the plan of coming in, but then stopped because his anger flared up again? Unable to leave either?

“Are you sure you can manage?” She pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Yes, I am," John answers with a pained smile at the image of Sherlock sitting in front of his room all this time, never replying to his texts, so John had given up sending any. Not a word. Nothing. "Thank you."

He grabs the bag and tries not to hiss, thankfully making it out of sight without showing any weakness. It still hurts. It’s still painful, but he has got it under control.

The fresh air is excellent and makes him forget the all too familiar ache a little, but when he stands on the step of 221B and opens the door, he’s out of breath and feels as if he has run a marathon. He has never been more relieved to be home.

The last 17 steps are a hurdle, but when he reaches the top of the stairs, he is greeted with an image that burns itself into his mind forever.

A bright, continuous giggle and a dark, soft baritone are the only sounds he can focus on.

A baby's wide grin, her curious eyes attentive to the little elephant held in front of her and her small fingers trying to grip its trunk conjure a smile on his lips. He is frozen in the doorway – losing track of where he is – as his eyes wander over the scene in front of him. There are no steps on the stairs behind him, no heels clicking on the creaking wood, no cups rattling on their saucers and cutlery clattering against porcelain plates as they are being carried on a tray. He finds the smell barely noticeable; just faintly registering it, not paying any attention to it whatsoever.

No, there’s none of this.

There's only Sherlock making his daughter laugh in one of the most beautiful ways there is.

Apparently, Sherlock hadn't noticed him come back either, entirely concentrating on the little girl on his lap, telling her facts about elephants.

“Did you know elephants have the biggest brains in the animal kingdom? And they’re pretty clever, too. I would say they’re similar to humans in many respects, except this one. Most humans aren’t very clever.” He brushes Rosie’s nose with the elephant’s trunk, causing another round of giggles.

“And did you know they spend 16 hours a day eating?” he asks her. “That’s about as much as you spend sleeping. Can you imagine that?” His voice is quiet and calm as he rocks her gently.

“They’re very sensitive, too,” he says. “And did I mention they are clever? They are _so_ smart. They can swim over wide distances, and whenever the water gets too deep, they use their trunks like snorkels. Their trunk is very useful, you see?"  
Her eyes are fixed on the stuffed animal in amazement.

“They are very protective, and they would do everything for their babies. Exactly what all of us would do for you, but they’re so much better at it than us.”

He presses a kiss to Rosie’s curly hair and finally hands her the elephant.

"But we're trying, and that's what matters," he whispers against her skin.

“Ephant,” Rosie says firmly, looking at her pink companion and then up at Sherlock.

“Elephant,” Sherlock corrects her, raising his index finger. “E-le-phant.”Rosie repeats herself. “

Rosie repeats herself. “Ephant.”

“E-le-phant.”“

“Ephant.”

“Fair enough. I’ll let you get away with that for today,” Sherlock tells her. His voice is always soft when he talks to her. _If one only knew his other side – the calculating, rational side –, one wouldn’t believe this,_ John thinks.

Utterly mesmerised and unable to move, he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His chest is aching, and it's not the wound this time. It isn't the first time he sees Sherlock this immersed with Rosie, but he has never witnessed a moment shared between Sherlock and his daughter this delicate and this intimate. Mrs Hudson told him Sherlock was very good with her, but he didn't expect… he didn't _know_ Sherlock is–

“God!” He jumps in surprise, torn away from the intimate moment and thrown back into reality when Mrs Hudson stands behind him. “John! What are you doing here? I thought you’d still be in hospital today!”

Sherlock's head jerks towards the door. John isn't sure if it is just the hazy glow in the living room making it look as though Sherlock is blushing or if his cheekbones redden indeed. "John–" he swallows.

“Hey,” is all John manages. 

“Don’t say you yomped here with that heavy bag all on your own, young man!” Mrs Hudson tutted.

"All right, I won't say it, then," John smiles reservedly, appreciating her fussing because it feels like home. As though nothing has happened at all.

“You sit down!” Her voice is insistent, but not lacking the motherly tone John is well accustomed to. “I brought biscuits and tea.”

Sherlock’s gaze follows Mrs Hudson who walks to the kitchen to set down the tray she has been carrying.

He looks as if he is about to ask how long they have been standing there, but he says nothing. Instead, he gets up from his chair, holding Rosie in his arms, and comes over. “Look, Daddy is back,” he tells her.

“Daddy!”

Still slightly stiff, he reaches for her, pressing her gently against his chest and kissing her cheek. “Hello, princess,” he breathes. “Are you having a good day?”

Rosie beams at him. “Ephant!”

"Yes, I heard you learnt quite a lot about elephants," John laughs cordially. He rubs his nose against her cheek, and Rosie giggles in delight.

Sherlock stands there, watching. "What about a nice cup of tea to welcome Daddy home, hmm?" he asks Rosie, and she turns her little head around, grinning. "I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock chuckles, and by God, he actually _chuckled_. John never thought he would live to see that day.

Sherlock.

Chuckling.

He isn’t quite sure if he might still be in a coma after all.

They follow her, not realising Rosie threw away her little pink elephant, leaving it behind on the living room floor.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

After tea and biscuits, Sherlock walks up the stairs to put Rosie to bed for her lunchtime nap. He holds her close to John's face so he can kiss her goodnight and then disappears for a while. Downstairs, John can hear him cooing and Rosie giggling. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Sherlock is her father. Maybe she really has accepted him as her Papa. Thinking of that makes him smile.

His fingers twist in the denim of his jeans when Sherlock comes back downstairs. He sits next to John on the sofa, awkwardly, both of them staring at the fireplace.

"So," Sherlock eventually breaks the silence, "how are you?"

"Fine," John replies. "Scar is stinging, but I'll be okay."

"Hm."

Another moment of silence passes. It’s so far from the truth.

"Why did you not come and visit me after… our fight?" John finally dares to ask. "I would have liked to apologise in person."

Sherlock doesn't answer, just staring at the ground.

When he finally opens his mouth to speak, John cuts him off. “And there’s no need to lie,” he says. Then, “I know you were there. Every night."

Sherlock turns his head and faces him; shock and confusion are written all over his face. An image that is quite rare.

John would smile if this weren’t so serious.

“I deduced it. I heard footfalls every night at exactly 11 pm. Could've been nurses checking on patients, but I know your gait. I know the way you walk."

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He doesn’t even blink.

"That, and the fact that nurse Rebecca told me."

The hint of a smile tugs at Sherlock’s lips. “Thought your deductive skills had improved for a moment.” The smile vanishes as soon as it appeared. “I went back home to check on Rosie every three hours. Worrying about two Watson’s at the same time can be rather – time-consuming.”

John doesn’t get the chance to reply to this.

“You staying over for tea, John?” Mrs Hudson watches them from the kitchen door.  
John opens his mouth to respond, but when he sees Mrs Hudson's face, he knows it hasn't been a question. "I thought you weren't our housekeeper?"

“I’m not, it’s just this once, dear,” she winks and disappears in the kitchen. 

“What’s the occasion?” John calls after her, raising his brow questioningly at Sherlock whose answer is only a shrug.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

John would disappear down the stairs, carrying Rosie with one arm and a bag with all her things with the other. The seventeen steps have never felt this hard to walk down than in the evenings after a draining shift at the clinic when the thought of a 45-minute cab drive was omnipresent in his head. Or so he thought – because going back home after a seemingly endless stay at a hospital that was even longer after having pissed off one's best friend after an embarrassing round of self-pitying and not having had the opportunity to apologise properly to said best friend is even harder.

“I should go now,” John says after dinner. They are standing in the sitting room while Mrs Hudson does the washing up she insisted on doing – “Just this once, I’m not your housekeeper, after all!”

Sherlock looks as though he wants to object, but John beats him to it. “I’ve already been–“ _enough of a burden_ , he is about to say but manages to stop himself before he gives those thoughts a voice. "You've taken care of Rosie for more than two weeks now. You need a break, too."

“John.”

John shakes his head. “Being a single parent is hard.”

Suddenly the rattling of the dishes and cutlery in the sink stops. "Oh, John," Mrs Hudson answers; her voice sounds soft and disbelieving as though she is upset she has to put this into words. "You're not a single parent."

His eyes dart from Mrs Hudson to Sherlock whose cheeks, John is certain, blushed a little deeper before he turned away, walking to the window, not meeting John’s eyes.

Of course, he would avoid this at all cost. One of those sad smiles appears on John's lips. He only he knew that there is nothing he wants more in his life than that. Being back at Baker Street with Sherlock _and_ Rosie.

The dead silence stretches on until Sherlock breaks it with a sigh. "We have a visitor."

“A client?” John askes immediately, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“Sadly no.”

Mrs Hudson is already drying her hands before she picks up Rosie from her highchair and heads downstairs to open the door. A minute later, Mycroft Holmes is standing in their doorway.

“What do you want?” Sherlock inquires without any formalities.

“A good evening to you too, brother dear,” Mycroft says with his ever-present sneer on his lips.

“I’m not going to repeat the question.”

“You might be interested in the events that occurred last night.”

“Or I might not.”

"Oh, I'm certain you will be. John even more so." Mycroft's voice turns more earnest now. 

John turns around to glance at him, a frown appearing on his face. What on earth could he mean by that? "I don't–“

“I am so frightfully sorry to interrupt," Mycroft says with a sneer, "but I am here to bring both of you the news that my men have killed her.”

"Her?" John's brain is reeling – who did he mean, and why on earth would it interest him? Rosie was all right, so was Mrs H... – "Not Molly!" he blurts out.

Mycroft looks at him in confusion. "What?" He twirls his umbrella. "No, not Miss Hooper. There is no reason we would– what is going on in that little brain of his, Sherlock?" He sighs, exasperated.

“Did you come here to insult John or to actually make a point?” Sherlock asks defensively.

“This isn’t something to be discussed in passing.”

“Fine, then.”

Sherlock finally takes a step forward and gestures to the chair all their clients usually frequent while the two of them find their rightful places in their armchairs. The image reminds him of the coma dream, and he mentally brushes that thought away.

“So what happened?” John asks him.

The elder Holmes locks eyes with John, piercing him. The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming. It feels as if he leaves a hole in his body and fills it with ice.

“I’m afraid this will be a shock for both of you.”

“Out with it,” Sherlock all but snaps.

Mycroft tuts, shaking his head. "Mary Watson. She is dead.”

John stares at him. "Yeah, congratulations, she's been dead for months." Ever since that dreadful night in the Aquarium when she threw herself in front of Sherlock. Ever since… "Would've thought you as the head of our government or whatever it is you actually do would have noticed that a tad earlier."

Mycroft's head swivels round to punish John with a condescending glare. "No need to get petty, Doctor Watson. Your… wife has not been dead for months. She died a few hours ago, and though I am sorry for your loss, it does not pain me all too much that she is gone now."

“But– she threw herself in front of Sherlock, she died in front of all of us!” John answers, raising his voice, trying not to lose his temper and failing. “How could she have survived that?”

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but John interrupts him again. “Her body was cremated and buried. She–“

It is Mycroft’s turn to cut him off. “It wasn’t.”

“She had no pulse, for God’s sake!”

“Her death was staged,” Mycroft tells them. “Besides, in all this agitation, you have probably just had difficulties finding it.”

“What the hell are you saying? That I’m not capable of finding someone’s pulse?” John asks indignantly.

“Not at all. You weren’t meant to find it.” Mycroft’s voice is calm and even-tempered, and John hates it.

"That trick has now worked twice on you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft continues without the hint of accusation in his voice. "I suppose, Mary knew about you falling for it once before."

"What do you mean, I never–" Suddenly, images of a pale Sherlock on the pavement flash up in front of John's eyes and he goes silent.

_Another person has done this to me. Another person I cared about._

Mycroft falls quiet for a moment before he goes on. “She was Jim Moriarty’s right hand.”

John looks at Sherlock and sees plainly the shock in his eyes. Nothing else gives him away, just his eyes.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us sooner?” Sherlock asks; the surprise is evident in his tone.

“Because we didn’t know about it. She changed her identities the way you change your dressing gowns.”

“This is not the time for abstract metaphors.”

“It fits very well, I’m afraid,” Mycroft says. “It wasn’t easy to get this piece of information. She staged her death in order to follow the task set before a long time ago.”

John shakes his head, unable to believe that he lived with this lie for years without suspecting a damn thing.

“This might be a little hard to take in just after your recovery,” Mycroft states as if it were the easiest thing in the world to accept that your dead wife, who wasn’t even dead, but now suddenly is, has targeted you since the beginning, and that it was her aim to harm him and Sherlock, making him believe that all she wanted was put her past behind her and have a family. Start a new life. With him.

He feels sick.

“I need to go,” he says abruptly and gets up. “I hope it’s actually safe for me to go home. Or did she hide a bomb somewhere in the house before her passing …”

Mycroft looked at him, incredulous. “Of course not.”

“Fine, see you, then,” John cuts into the silence and heads downstairs to pick up Rosie.

He cannot quite believe he is actually leaving until he is standing on the pavement outside 221B, staring up at the closed door, Rosie cradled safely in his arms. If he were lucky enough, he could make it home before the rain would start pouring down. But knowing his luck, that definitely isn’t going to happen. He walks for at least ten minutes while heavy drops of water soak his and Rosie’s clothes. When he has almost lost all hope, a cab finally stops for him. He slumps down in the seat. Rosie is probably freezing.

He doesn't see which streets they pass, and he doesn't hear Rosie cooing and whining, his mind is just set on one thing: Mary, dead. A liar. From the very fucking beginning. He scoffs. He's always had a talent for choosing the wrong people to spend his life with, it seems.

It takes another thirty minutes to get back to the house he once called his home. It never really was, though. Home. He had just left home; even if he didn’t want to. He simply couldn’t bear any more talk about Mary. All the lies she’s told him all along. The danger she’s imposed on him and Sherlock. The wedge she drove between them. The way she had changed him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but the thoughts are insistent and won’t leave his head.

When he gets inside, he prepares a bath for Rosie to warm up. Her mood brightens a little, but not for very long. He puts her to bed, apologising for not reading a bedtime story tonight, but he is aching all over. His shoulder stings and so does his chest. His head is buzzing with unwelcome thoughts, and the last solution is standing on the top shelf of his cabinet. 

His mobile pings just as he reaches out to grab the bottle of scotch just waiting for him.

 

13th February 2017, 9:18 pm

_Don't. SH_

 

John frowns at the text, not even wondering how Sherlock knows; he simply does as he always does, but tells himself "screw this" and pours himself a glass anyway. The smoky liquid running down his throat calms him down, and a burning warmth spreads comfortably, heavily, in his stomach. 

 

13th February 2017, 9:20 pm

_This is not the way you should be dealing with this. Stop. SH_

 

John rolls his eyes, ignoring the text and taking another sip instead. His heartbeat slows down a little. Memories of Mary are swimming in front of his eyes.

He shakes his head to cast them off but doesn't quite manage it. Another sip. Another gulp. Another tumbler and another. He grimaces. His throat burns a little after he swallows. A different kind of burn than the one of his chest; more pleasant.

Why is it always him? Why is it _always_ him who has to deal with all the mess?

Another text from Sherlock.

 

13th February 2017, 9:24 pm

 _John. SH_  

 

John closes his eyes as anger flares up in his stomach. And why do other people always know what’s best for him?

John takes up his phone to type out something like "just leave me be," but he fumbles too much and the screen goes all blurry, so he puts it away again. He knows he's had too much, but he doesn't care anymore, not at this point. His phone keeps announcing new texts from Sherlock, but John chooses to ignore them. 

Until the doorbell rings.

He jerks, and upstairs, Rosie promptly starts crying. John curses under his breath, hurrying up the stairs to her to calm her down. The bell rings again. "One bloody moment," John yells impatiently, soothing Rosie with soft and tender forehead kisses.

John heads for the door, still carrying Rosie in his arms. When he opens it and sees Sherlock, he can’t help but laugh breathlessly. “I should’ve known,” he scoffs and shakes his head.

“John–“

Rosie interrupts him, reaching for him and making little whining noises.

“Lovely,” John mutters under his breath. “Here, take her. Since I’m apparently not even capable of calming her down.”

He hands her over to Sherlock and goes back inside, sinking back down on the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

Sherlock stands in the doorway for a while, uncertain of what to do. He probably hates seeing John like this, so does John himself after all, and desperately wishes he could do something for him – John suspects he deleted "How to Comfort People You Love for Dummies", a gag gift by Lestrade for one of Sherlock's birthdays. So he quietly steps inside, gently closing the door behind him, and starts humming a little melody under his breath, deep and low, to hopefully comfort Rosie a little. She keeps crying a bit longer, but her wails become softer, more muffled until she moans one final time and then falls quiet, rubbing her nose against Sherlock's chest.

On the sofa, John scoffs. "Bloody brilliant father I am." He rubs a hand over his face, eyes briefly trailing to the forgotten bottle of Scotch on the table. "Can't even calm my own child down."

"You're upset, too, John," Sherlock says. "Children sense other people’s s discomfort even more strongly than a grown-up ever could. It's no surprise Rosie didn't simmer down again with you being on edge all the time as well."

John ignores Sherlock's words entirely, but he knows he is right. Damn him. He is always right.

He stares at the coffee table in front of him, looking at the scotch tumbler that he set down rather forcefully. "How could I not see what she wanted to do to us," he hissed. "I can't believe she fooled me three times. And you, too!"

He looks up at Sherlock’s calm face. He looks like he has more to say about John’s parenting qualities, but he chooses not to. 

“Nobody is infallible,” is all he says.

John snorts and picks up the scotch glass. "That's rare, coming from you." The words are biting, and he doesn't mean them, but he's so angry. Angry at the wrong person. Angry for the wrong reasons.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, thinking. "Well, nobody except me," he tries, a desperate attempt at making a joke to cheer John up somehow, and there actually is a hint of a smile tugging at John's lips – but it's a fleeting moment only, and it's gone as soon as it appears. Sherlock gently puts Rosie down on the sofa to grab John's wrist and stop him from raising the glass any further.

"Don't," he says, stern, a repetition of his previous text. Sherlock is a man of many words when it comes to deductions, but when he needs to get to the core of things – and quickly – he needs only a few, and his voice. John is used to commands, so Sherlock is giving him one.

John blinks up at him as his hand holding the glass is trembling slightly. Sherlock keeps staring back at him, piercing, cold eyes, and John sets the drink down. He releases a heaving breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "I should put Rosie to bed."

"Let me," Sherlock says. "If you go, you'll only come down with a fake smile plastered on your face, show me to the door, and bid me good-night. You're staying, and you're not to touch that tumbler again, understood?"

John’s fingers twitch, and without thinking, he sets the glass back down on the coffee table. It’s been a long time since Sherlock’s voice was this stern and firm. He swallows and rests both hands in his lap.

“All right, then.”

He watches Sherlock get up and take Rosie upstairs to her cot, all the while looking back to make sure John wouldn't lean forward again to reach out for another quick shot.

When Sherlock comes back down, John is still staring at his hands. Shoulders hunched, he tries to avoid whatever sermon Sherlock is undoubtedly prepared to give him. As if he doesn't know.

Bracing himself for reprimanding words, he lifts his head and tries to hold his gaze, but all Sherlock tells him is, “You had better get some rest, too.”  
John nods once but makes no move of getting up. He doesn't even know why he came here. He dreads sleeping in their old bed because it reminds him too much of Mary, and Mary is the last thing he wants to think about right now.

The longer John hesitates, the tenser and more charged the atmosphere becomes. "What's wrong?" Sherlock finally asks, and all John can do is laugh breathlessly.

“Everything.”

He isn’t looking at him, but he can hear him take a deep breath. He wants to give consolation without knowing how. Something John can relate to very much.

"I'm sorry about what I said at the hospital. It just– it felt so real, Sherlock. All of it. I can't believe it was a dream."

"I understand it's a lot to take in. It's all right, John," Sherlock tells him.

"I shouldn't have lashed out on you, though."

Sherlock falls quiet. John is afraid he's said the wrong thing again, but he can't have, he can't–

"Thank you," Sherlock answers, "for apologising."

A second later, he feels a warm and steady hand on his upper back, not moving, just… a comforting pressure. John's eyes fall shut; it makes it even harder to get up.

They stay like in this position for a long time, and neither of them speaks. John doesn't know how he manages to get up eventually, but he gives Sherlock a small, grateful smile before he says goodnight and heads upstairs to their guestroom. The thought of sleeping in what was once his and Mary's bed after sharing that moment with Sherlock that felt more intimate than any moment he has ever shared with Mary is more than unappealing. When he falls asleep, he thinks of how thankful he is that the man whom he has put through hell is sleeping downstairs, and how desperately he would love him to be right here, beside him; in the bed that is too empty and too cold.

It’s something he can never have. Not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
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	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John wakes to Rosie's happy babbling, the sizzling of a pan, cutlery clanking and a familiar smell of bacon and eggs wafting through this usually so empty house.

It takes a while for John to realise that this must be Sherlock in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

There are miracles after all.

John pushes back the duvet and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He gets up and goes to Rosie's room, picking her up into his arms with care. “No heavy lifting,” they have told him over and over again before he was discharged from hospital. Rosie isn’t too heavy yet, but leaning over her crib and bringing her close to his chest  _does_  cause a rather disconcerting twitch. 

“Good morning, darling,” he breathes. “Did you sleep well?” He realises she didn't wake him up last night at all. He smiles; Sherlock. Again.

He goes downstairs, finding Sherlock in the kitchen. His shirt is rumpled and his hair curlier than usual. “Morning,” he says. “You're making breakfast.”

"Excellent observation," Sherlock says over the sizzling sound of the bacon in the pan.

"You never make breakfast," John answers, a smile tugging at his lips.                      

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, reciprocating the smile. “Mrs Hudson is there when we need her, but she’s truly  _not_  our housekeeper."

Once Rosie is in her highchair, John sits down, too. "Thanks for," he clears his throat. "For staying and taking care of her last night. I didn't even hear her…"

"Don't mention it," Sherlock answers, taking plates out of the cupboard.

"Anything else I can do?" 

Sherlock lays the table and then locks eyes with him. "Indeed.”

John already moved to get up again, prepared to do whatever task Sherlock still has for him, but the firm press of his hand against John’s shoulder stops him. “Wh–“

“Come back to Baker Street."

John is lost for words for a long moment, and when he finds his voice, all he can do is stammer. "I–,” he begins, unable to give a proper answer. Back to Baker Street would mean back to Mrs Hudson, back to his armchair, the untidy living room, body parts in the fridge, Sherlock, … back – home.

But could he really burden Sherlock with Rosie? Sure, she is a cheerful little girl, and Sherlock loves her with all his heart, yet he doesn't know what it means to raise a baby 24/7. She is lively and vivacious and demanding…

And then there is himself with his drinking problem and his bullet wound and …

“You needn't fret,” Sherlock interrupts John's thoughts. “I wouldn't ask you to return if I weren’t completely aware of what that entails and entirely ready to–“

“But–“ John interrupts him, but suddenly all the words he wanted to say are gone. All his thoughts a mess. His ability to form a proper sentence vanished.

Does he really know what it entails? He has been taking care of her while John was in hospital, but raising a child isn't something one dabbles in. It's more than changing nappies and getting up in the middle of the night. More than feeding and bathing, holding and cuddling. One has to devote one's life to raising a child, and Sherlock's lifestyle and job aren’t the best prerequisites. But then, neither are his own.

"You're really sure?"

"How much confirmation do you need?" Sherlock asks disbelievingly.

John rubs his hands over his thighs, clearing his throat. "All right." He looks up at Sherlock, the realisation of him actually moving back still having to sink in. "I’ll come back to Baker Street."

"Mrs Hudson will be delighted," Sherlock replies with a smirk, setting down a cup of tea in front of John before he sits down himself, sipping his own tea. As always, he is not eating anything.

John tries the bacon. "You’ll have to get used to me making sure you eat enough when I'm back at 221B."

"I did not expect anything else from you," Sherlock says, nicking a piece of bacon from John's plate.

And thus, shone upon by the warm morning sun, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson sit and smile at each other, and it's not only their mouths that smile but also their eyes and – most of all – their hearts.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

"I put her to bed. She's fast asleep now."

John looks up from his whiskey glass when he hears Sherlock coming down the stairs. It's become a ritual, this, Sherlock reading a bedtime story to Rosie, kissing her goodnight. Frankly, John finds it adorable to see Sherlock like that with her. Whenever he watches his daughter and his best friend, his heart swells with joy and pride and love for the two of them.

Tonight, though, John has chosen to stay downstairs. A lot of thoughts have been running through his head all day – all week, to be honest, ever since he was released from hospital. And it felt right for him to have a drink tonight. To sort his thoughts, clear the cobwebs away. To numb the pain that sits deeper, beneath his bullet wound.

Just another small one. He’s already had three, but one doesn’t need to dwell on things, right.

"I heard you reading to her," John says quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. He nods towards Sherlock's chair, inclining his head; a silent request for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock carefully makes his way to his chair, trying not to step on any of Rosie's myriad of toys. He's eyeing John in this peculiar way of his, examining, calculating. John flushes. Might be the alcohol, might be Sherlock's intense stare, might be both.

"Should you really? Drink, I mean. What with your concussion and just having woken up from a coma," Sherlock asks while sitting down.

John shrugs. "I guess I can stomach one whiskey."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

John sighs. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock, I can figure out when I've had too much. Trust me on this."

Sherlock’s gaze falls on the empty glass on the small table beside John’s chair. He already knows what that means.

He nods towards it. Then his eyes flicker back up to John's face. "Just the one for me," he says, his voice laden with concern John wishes weren’t there, yet he relents. John reaches for the tumbler and pours him a glass.

“You kept an eye on me after…, well, you know. I’m just doing the same,” he adds and accepts it. Their fingers brush, sending a chill down John’s back.

John directs his gaze at the floor beneath his feet. They're clad in warm, woollen socks, giving him a feeling of being comfortable, of being at home. "You shouldn't have to," he mutters.

"Shouldn't have to do what?" Sherlock enquires, frowning.

"Look after me." John clears his throat, takes another sip. His right hand trembles slightly around the glass. "I'm a grown man, for fuck's sake, I should be able to look after myself. And my daughter. On my own. I shouldn't have to rely on someone else with all that." He squeezes his eyes shut, twisting his head to one side. "Shouldn't be a burden to you."

Sherlock leans forward in his chair ever so slightly. John doesn't even notice. "You aren't a burden, John. If any of this bothered me, I wouldn't do it. This is the alcohol talking. Maybe you've had enough for today."

"No, I bloody haven't!" John yells, clasping a hand over his mouth in shock after the words have come out. "I'm sorry. I just…" He trails off, not knowing what to say. "I've had enough of about almost everything else."

Sherlock winces at John's shout, making John feel even more sorry for it. For God's sake, he's been trying to get his life back on track after everything that's happened, and yet all he does is make it all worse. He sets down the glass on the table and presses both palms of his hands to his eyes. Sherlock is right, of course. 

 _Why does he always have to be right?_ He wonders ruefully.

He should stay away from the alcohol, but when it’s the only thing to clear his head, the only thing that can make him feel numb for just a short amount of time, it is becoming harder and harder not to reach for the bottle.

When Sherlock speaks, his voice is hushed. "You went through a lot in the past few weeks–"

John laughs bitterly. “It’s no excuse for anything.”

Sherlock doesn't reply. That's a first. He presses his lips together, and now, he is the one staring at the ground.

Several heartbeats pass in silence before John exhales shakily, draining his glass with one big gulp and setting it aside. "And it's definitely no excuse for what happened in… in the morgue."

Sherlock looks up at John, eyes questioning.

"You… you know what I mean." John waves his hand around, finding it hard to say what he wishes to, finding it difficult to admit what he did, to apologise the way he should.

"I suppose I do," Sherlock says, his voice a mere whisper. John glances at him quickly, seeing the detective's face washed over by pain at the memory of what happened when John broke down in Culverton's favourite room. "But as I said back then, it was your right to … do what you did."

John shakes his head. "It wasn't."

The memory of it is overwhelming. John feels so much guilt and dread when he thinks about what he has done. The way Sherlock looked up at him, his nose bleeding, his lip trembling, his bloodshot eyes, his skin pale from fatigue and exhaustion caused by all the drugs that he thought were necessary to take to save him …

It makes him feel sick. The way he kept punching him, kicking him, hurting him even more when he was already a wreck. At the bottom of the pit he said he could only climb out of with John’s help. All John had done was push him deeper into it.

He wishes he would never have to think about it again, but the image still haunts him most nights, in his dreams that simply never stop.

“I had no right, Sherlock,” John murmurs hoarsely, remembering all the times he stepped between Sherlock and the people who intended to hurt him, verbally and physically.  _What has he become?_

“I–“ His voice breaks and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat, without luck. “I should never have lost control the way I did…,” he says almost inaudibly.

When Sherlock finally speaks up, John almost jumps as the silence is interrupted all of a sudden. "It's okay, John," he says. "You're right, you did lose control, and that's not excusable." John's heart sinks. He knows, of course he knows it's inexcusable, and it is good Sherlock has not forgiven him yet. He doesn't deserve to be forgiven, not for something as huge as this, not for beating him to a pulp and betraying his trust like this… But hearing it from Sherlock's own mouth, taking in those words feels as if another massive weight is being forced onto his shoulders. He wants to speak, but Sherlock beats him to it. "But I understand. You lost your wife. Your whole world was crumbling down in front of your eyes. You were simply overwhelmed and needed to take it out on the person you thought was responsible for it. Believe me, I do understand. When I … jumped, I reacted similarly towards Mycroft."

"You were not responsible," John insists. "Not for any of this." It takes a while before Sherlock's last words sink in. "You… you did what?"

Sherlock's eyes are on him. Almost piercing. John's mouth goes dry. He wants to refill his glass but resists the urge. Sherlock shakes his head, then looks down at his hands. "I never wanted to leave," he says slowly. "I did what I had to do. My brother knew that but didn't understand why it–" He clears his throat, "why it affected me so much. I ignored his comments until the final straw.”

"What was the final straw?" John asks quietly and carefully, hoping he wouldn't stop now. They had never talked about the fall again. Another thing that had been bothering John all this time. He had cut Sherlock off when he wanted to explain everything to him back then, and naturally, Sherlock had never broached the subject again.

“It wasn’t easy for me to– leave everything behind,” Sherlock answers cautiously. “Mycroft and I let him destroy my reputation in order to get more information about the web of agents Moriarty had all around the world. I’d been looking for possibilities other than the ones my brother came up with, all of which would result in the same catastrophe.” Sherlock shook his head. “If we had had more time, maybe things could have turned out differently, but Mycroft underestimated him. We both did, but in the haste of the moment, that didn’t matter to me. He wouldn’t have to leave the country for God knows how long and be away from the people he cared about.”

"Molly and Mrs Hudson, you mean?" John asks, smiling sadly. He knows Sherlock always had a soft spot for these two women, as did John.  _And me?_  is what he thinks but doesn't dare to ask.

Sherlock smiles disbelievingly and locks eyes with him. "Yes. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. And you."

Several things happen to and in John's body at once: his eyes widen, he feels his pulse rising and blushes. It's a short, quick feeling, but it's intense, and he is sure it shows on his face. Which is weird, to be quite frank, since John knows he and Sherlock are best friends. They have said it to each other on a few rare occasions, have shown it more often, and yet he feels strangely happy to hear Sherlock confirm it again.

He feels Sherlock’s attentive gaze on him. He wants to speak, say something,  _anything at all_ , but once more Sherlock is faster than him. “On that rooftop, Moriarty threatened to end your lives. He positioned snipers who witnessed the entire scene. There was no other possible way to stop this except ‘killing myself.’ I had to make it convincing, John. I had to make you watch and believe the lie. I couldn’t let you know afterwards, or you would have been in danger once again, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

John nods. He distantly remembers Sherlock saying something like that to him before, but just like back then, it doesn't really sink in. Too present is the memory of Sherlock's death, still too painful. John had lost his best friend there, the most important person in his life. He lost him, and part of him still feels that way. He truly believes it put a strain on their relationship, a dent that cannot be fixed, no matter how much one of them apologises.

"I know," is all John says. "I finally understand why you did it now. It's fine. It's all fine." He manages a smile, but it comes across as rather forced. His fingers twitch.

Sherlock raises one corner of his mouth. "You said this to me before, remember?"

John remembers that day vividly. It’s painful to smile; painful to think about it. All the lost chances, the moments they would never get back. “I do, yeah,” he answers. “Things were still fine back then. Much better than the mess we’re in now.”

He has been regretting what he had said that first night at Angelo's. ‘No, I'm not asking, no–‘ Everything could be different now. They could be … something. They could have chosen to take a different path and make different choices if John had had the guts to be honest for once. There had been the first step forward all those years ago, and he still feels bitter about never having taken the second one.  _And now it’s too late._

This is what he meant when he talked to Sherlock about Irene so passionately before... before all of this went down the drain. Before Eurus and the coma and all of this bloody, stupid mess.

"Well," Sherlock says quietly, gesturing around the flat, "I suppose we've always been in some sort of mess, haven't we? I figure the mess we're in now, as you call it, shouldn't bother either of us at all."

John cannot help but smirk. "Sherlock Holmes, was that your attempt at cracking a joke?"

Sherlock smiles in return. "Perhaps."

John rubs a hand over his face, letting himself rest against the backrest of the chair. "It's not been so easy, these past few days. Weeks. Months." He huffs a sarcastic laugh.

"I noticed," Sherlock says, shifting in his seat. For a fleeting moment, John has the impression that the detective wishes to get up but apparently thinks better of it. Somehow, John finds that quite disappointing.

He looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say so much, but it’s unlike them to ever talk about what they feel; this is new. Unfamiliar territory.

Almost all his thoughts sounded wrong when he voiced them so far, but he has never been particularly good at this.

“I wish we could go back to before all of this,” he manages to say, but it isn’t at all what he wants.

He wants so much more than what they had before, but he can’t tell Sherlock about this. Yet going back to how things used to be is still a more appealing thought than their current situation.

Sherlock presses the tips of his fingers together in front of his mouth, a well-known gesture. He's thinking, but what about, John can only assume. He'd give a penny, heck, he'd give millions to know what's going on in Sherlock's head, but he knows he'd probably not understand a single thing.

"What would you change about this, then?" Sherlock asks, and he sounds genuinely interested. Come to think of it, he always had displayed special interest in what makes John tick.

John huffs a silent laugh. “God, everything,” he says. “If I could undo what I did to you, I would do it this instant.” 

It is the first thing he would change if he had the chance.

“Making you take care of Rosie when I can’t – I know you never signed up for that, hell, I shouldn’t have brought this on you, but I have. The morgue, the le–“ He closes his eyes and swallows hard, hoping desperately Sherlock didn’t hear the slip. He cannot talk about this now. He hates himself for it. Merely thinking about the damn letter makes him feel sick.

Sherlock gnaws on his bottom lip. "First of all, I adore Rosie," he huffs. "I would have never thought I'd ever say these words. But it's the truth. I love taking care of her. And of you. Being looked after is what you both deserve after everything you've been through."

The warm light of the fireplace engulfs Sherlock in a glowing, yellow tone, softening his features. It makes him look almost human, fragile, broken. In Need of affection, just like everyone else.

"And the letter... well, let's, let's just not talk about that anymore. It's over and done with."

"No, it's not," John protests, forcing himself to keep his voice at a low level for the sake of not waking Rosie up. "It's not, and we both know it. You stabbed that thing to the damn wall. I wrote it when I was drunk and out of my mind, and you … you almost–" John's voice breaks, and he begins to sob. It's probably the alcohol lowering his barriers, but at this moment, he just doesn't care. Sherlock has seen him cry before. So to hell with it.

John buries his face in his hands. It's terribly hard to speak, but he has to get this off his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispers. His eyes sting, and the tears moisten his skin. "I wish this were easier, but it– damn it…" He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "I can't forgive myself for that, and I know you can't forgive me either, and that's all right, that's–"

He feels two hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer. He gets up and lets himself be guided to Sherlock’s chest. He buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, wetting the fabric of his expensive shirt. This time he doesn’t cover his eyes with his hand. He closes his arms around Sherlock’s waist, his fists tightening at his sides, twisting the garment between his fingers.

Sherlock’s hand rests on the back of his head, just a steady weight holding him where he’s standing. His other hand presses against his spine. It only takes another moment before John’s dam of emotions starts to crumble further and break entirely.

His heart swells with emotions, conflicting ones. He wants to say all of what he feels out loud but is afraid to do so – afraid to push Sherlock away, afraid of himself. Afraid of breaking this fragile thing of a friendship they have left.

Sherlock hugging him is a feeling John doesn't want to miss anymore. He's had a hug once, now the second time, and as he sobs into Sherlock's chest, he realises that this man might just need a hug as much as he does.

Too many things have been going on in both their lives and even though John still isn't able to adequately differentiate between what was his coma-induced dream and reality, he knows Sherlock has been through a lot as well. His childhood, his brother, not being appreciated but instead bullied for the way he is.

It's this moment that John understands the only constant thing in both their lives is – each other. Sherlock has always been a fixed point in John's universe, even after his alleged death, his thoughts only revolved around him. And just like that, John has kept Sherlock grounded and focussed.

"I need you," John whispers into Sherlock's shirt, the words slipping out between sobs without him really wanting to. "I need you, Sherlock, I …"

He feels Sherlock’s breath hitch, and tightens the embrace, uncurling his fingers from where they held onto Sherlock’s shirt and coming around to find their place on his back.

“You made a vow to me a long time ago.” His voice is quiet and hoarse from the tears. “This is  _my_  vow. I won’t hurt you again, ever. Not deliberately. Not the way I did in the last couple of weeks and months. I promise you I’ll get better. I – I’ll make it up to you, I swear,” he breathes and looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, almost afraid to do so, almost scared of what he might see. 

He doesn't have to be. Sherlock's eyes are slightly wet, too, but they're not judging, not blaming, not cold. A soft expression lies in them, and John feels some of the tension leave his body.

Sherlock's left hand comes up to John's face, and for a moment there he thinks Sherlock is going to cup his cheek. Subconsciously, John turns his face toward the hand, but Sherlock only wipes a single tear away. John feels stupid, but as he locks eyes with Sherlock again, there is no amusement in them.

"There is nothing you have to make up to me," Sherlock whispers. "You, in 221B, with me, that's all I need. It's good the way it is." He exhales shakily. "There is no need to undo our past, John, or to change things. If we did, we might not be where we are now. It is what it is. And what it is – is okay."

John blinks at him, tears still blurring his eyes. "Is it?" His voice is hoarse. Shy. Uncertain.

Sherlock nods, the movement bringing their heads closer together. For a fraction of a second, one of Sherlock's curls brushes John's forehead. "It is."

Okay is … okay. Not good, and not bad. He still wants it to be better … because that’s how things have been in the beginning. They have been good.  _So_  good.

John doesn't know if he's imagining things, but it feels like Sherlock's grip on his back tightens just a bit. Nevertheless, he takes that as an invitation to step even closer and press Sherlock tighter against him, burying his head beneath Sherlock's chin. "No matter how badly I screwed up, I have so much to thank you for."

"You have the equal amount of my gratitude, John." Sherlock's voice is barely audible, but John feels his breath on his forehead, and it makes him shiver. He closes his eyes, relishing the moment, trying to take in as much as he can as long as it lasts.

Sherlock is right. If he were to undo their past, they might not be standing here right now. They might never have got what they get to have at this moment. He doesn’t want to imagine that. Merely standing here, in Sherlock’s arms, is enough. Certainly more than he deserves, more than he has allowed himself to have, more than he ever imagined was possible.

Their chests and toes are touching; they are closer than the last time they were standing here. The fire lulls them into a hazy glow. It's almost surreal, John thinks, and he doesn't want it to end. He wants Sherlock's warm and steady hands on his back, his shoulders, his neck, and he doesn't want to let go of him either. He is feeling better than he has felt in ages; as if the weight he had been carrying all this time had been lifted off his shoulders.

The fire continues burning in the fireplace. Outside, the cars keep driving by. Rosie continues to sleep peacefully in her little bed. Downstairs, John and Sherlock keep breathing. Their chests rise and fall at the same time, and their hearts pump blood through their bodies like they always have. Steady. Reliable.

Like their embrace.

They don't talk much more. It feels like a silent agreement that yes, things did go wrong in the past, but also yes, they will be fine. They'll be okay. They are already. They will be better.

If Sherlock angles his head just  _slightly_  that his lips come to rest on John's hair, neither of them talks about it. If John buries his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck and just breathes him in, neither of them mentions it. If Sherlock's hand slowly comes to rest on John's hip, and if John's hand falls down to brush over Sherlock's, it does not go unnoticed, but it just feels right.

Just as right as it feels to breathe.

In and out. In and out. In. Out. Sherlock. John. An entity in an always-turning universe; able to function only with the other close by. As it has always been. As it always will be.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

Days pass. Perhaps it’s just a silly feeling, but something between them has shifted. John can’t quite pinpoint what it is, exactly, but it’s definitely there.

Change.

Maybe it’s the way Sherlock looks at him, not the pained expression that often lay in his eyes these days when John came down the stairs, wincing from the slight ache in his chest the still-fresh wound has caused. Maybe it’s the cup of tea that waits for him in the kitchen every morning when he wakes up and the second cup of tea he makes whenever he’s the first to rise; the way it has been in the old days. Maybe it’s the ease with which they can talk now.

There were no sharp, cutting, nagging thoughts in his head anymore; at least not all the time. Not after that night. The nightmares slowly disappeared, letting him sleep through a lot more nights than before.

John smiles, often. So does Sherlock. Their smiles are honest, open, earnest – not forced, not painful, not arduous.

Maybe, they have finally started healing.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

"I'll quit my job at the surgery," John announces one morning over breakfast. Breakfast that only he is having. Sherlock has taken two bites of his toast. "And …"

Sherlock lowers the newspaper he has been reading. “And?”

“And,” John takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “And sell the house … if you still want us around here, permanently, that is.”

Sherlock frowns as though he has stated the most idiotic thing in the world. "I already told you. You're always welcome here, John." His eyes are sharper and more piercing than he has ever seen them. "This is your home, too. It has been even when you–," he hesitates, "even when you didn't live here."

John is unable to form another sentence, let alone another word. He wants to reach over the table and enclose Sherlock’s hand in both his own, walk around the table, pull him up and into a hug.

He does none of these things.

Instead, he simply smiles.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

It's 02:05 am when John is woken by a violin playing beautifully. His eyes blink open slowly as he is roused from his sleep, as he is dragged from a warm dream back into reality, where coldness creeps through every hole in 221B's wall. In her little bed, Rosie snores silently.

But downstairs, the violin is still playing. Softly, as to not disturb the other inhabitants of this house, but John has always responded to Sherlock's playing. He rubs his eyes and quietly pads to the door, carefully opening it. He makes his way slowly down the stairs, leaning against the living room door frame, watching Sherlock play.

As usual, the detective looks out of the window – onto the now silent street below – only illuminated by a few lampposts. He is clad in his blue silk dressing gown, swaying in rhythm with the music. His bare feet keep moving to the left and to the right; left and right. John briefly worries he might be cold.

Sherlock keeps playing, and although John cannot see his face, he just knows his eyes are closed. They usually are.

The melody is sad, full of longing, the notes high and drawn out, deep and sorrowful. It feels like listening to Sherlock's innermost feelings. He had once written a piece like this back when the Woman was turning their lives around.

This is a different melody, though. Softer. Fuller. More hopeful.

John stands inertly in the doorway until the cold creeps through the thin layer of his socks that separates his feet from the wooden floor. He shifts, and one of the boards creaks.

Sherlock stops playing for a moment, apparently so lost in the quiet tune he has not heard John’s steps when he walked down the stairs. He doesn’t pause very long, though, so John treads through the living room until he sinks down in his armchair.

He watches Sherlock sway with the music; he has become one with the violin and the bow.

John doesn't know how long he has been listening, how long his eyes followed Sherlock's slim figure as he moved gracefully, coercing the sweetest notes from the instrument, but eventually, the notes ring out, fading into the darkness of the room until everything turns quiet and their breathing is the only sound that carefully cuts through the silence.

"That was beautiful," John tells Sherlock whose back is still facing him.

Sherlock turns his head ever so slightly so John can catch a glimpse of his profile, his eyes still half-closed. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something but evidently, decides against it. He just nods in thanks. He slowly makes his way to his chair, gently putting the violin back into its case. "I hope I didn't wake you."

John smiles. "Sort of. I don't mind, though. It's a nice way of being roused from sleep."

Sherlock clicks the case closed, running his fingers over the beautiful leather, and for a second John wishes those fingers were trailing over his very own skin. He clears his throat in embarrassment. Sherlock doesn't seem to have noticed.

"You should probably head back upstairs and get some sleep," he whispers.

"I should, yeah,” John answers but doesn’t make any move to get up from his chair. Even if he wanted to go back to sleep now, he isn’t sure he could that easily. The tune of Sherlock's song is still stuck in his mind and makes his heart swell. He knows Sherlock probably just played it because he was thinking – it always helps him think after all – but the way he moved, the way he immersed himself in the music, the way the soft notes enveloped both of them made John's heart beat faster.

Some nights, Sherlock's pieces sound like lullabies, sometimes, they remind John of his rattling mind that cannot be switched off; then there are scrapes that make John's hair on the back of his neck stand up. But tonight, it hasn't been either of those. Tonight, it has sounded like a confession, as if Sherlock has laid bare his heart and let all the emotions pour out through the instrument.

He cannot possibly fall asleep again now.

“I think I'll have a cuppa instead," John finally says, turning toward the kitchen. "You want one?"

"Might as well," Sherlock replies, looking surprised by John's reaction. Usually, when John wants tea, he is either terribly upset or feels the need to talk about something (but never does, in the end). So John puts the kettle on, hustling and bustling about the kitchen, looking for milk and tea bags and sugar while waiting for the water to boil. When the tea is finally in the mugs, he returns to Sherlock, handing him his cup before sitting down himself. John blows over the hot liquid to cool it down, watching Sherlock intensely over the rim of his mug.                        

Its warmth spreads through his fingers and palms and his entire body. Should he ask? Should he really dare?

Sherlock's silhouette stands out in the soft light of the street lamps shining through the window behind him.

He swallows all the doubts that linger on his tongue. "I've never heard that song before. Is it your own composition?

"Yes," Sherlock replies simply. Yes, and nothing more.

To John, this seems rather out of character. Sherlock, who usually falls into a monologue every time he can, elaborating on everything that catches his attention, is now so quiet and curt? Something is off; there must be something Sherlock is hiding.

"What's its name?" John presses on, curious to get behind the secret.

Sherlock avoids his eyes, staring into the steaming tea mug he's holding tightly in his hands. He is quiet for a long moment, fidgeting.

"Sherlock?" John probes carefully.

"It– um," the detective clears his throat, still not looking at him. "It doesn't have a name yet."

"Right." John scratches the back of his neck, taking a careful sip of his tea. It's still quite hot, and he almost burns his tongue. "Just thought you might have had something in mind. A name, I mean. This … this piece sounded quite emotional. To me."

Sherlock clears his throat, taking a big gulp of his tea, coughing due to the heat. "It is," he croaks, "but I cannot decide between the ideas I have for the name.”

John raises his head. "Can I help you with this, maybe? You know, creative titles have always been one of my strongest assets."

Sherlock snorts. "Yes, Mr My-Blog-Entries-Have-The-Best-Titles."

“Hey!” John huffs in mock irritation. “You should be thankful for all the clients you got because of the blog.”

Sherlock laughs then, blowing away the steam of his tea. “That doesn’t change the fact that the names are ridiculous.”

“Always the charmer, aren’t you,” John says sarcastically and takes another sip of his tea even though it was still too hot.

Sherlock smiles but falls quiet for an endless moment. A nagging thought torments John’s mind, lying heavy on his tongue and demanding to be voiced.

“It’s not about her, is it?” he manages to say.

Slowly, Sherlock drags his eyes from his cup up to John's face. "Her?"

"You know," John says uncomfortably, waving his hand around vaguely. "Her. The Woman."

Sherlock looks at him for a seemingly endless moment. Then he looks straight into John's eyes. "No," he answers, and it feels as if a huge weight is lifted from John's shoulders. "I have once written a song about her, but this one … this one isn't. What made you think it was?"

“I don’t know, um … You seemed to be immersed and the way you played it was … rather moving,” John stutters a little. “I just thought you thought of her when you composed it.”

Sherlock is grinning at him now, infecting John with it.

“Why are you smiling?”

“It’s funny,” Sherlock says.

“What is?”

“You are.”

John’s smile turns into confusion. “Why?”

The grin still lingers on Sherlock’s lips. “Why do you have such a hard time accepting I don’t feel attracted to her?” 

John begins to stutter. "Uh, I, well, cause ... cause she is beautiful and clever and she … she fascinated you. You even wrote a musical piece about her!"

Sherlock is laughing now. "Oh, John. She inspired me to write the song, as she was a very clever woman indeed. The song I wrote then merely expressed my admiration for her intelligence. I have not ever been even remotely interested in her – even if that wasn't exactly mutual." He shakes his head at the memory of Irene's flirting attempts. And the 58 texts. Yes, he still counts.

"But … I thought you … you and her ..." John takes an embarrassed sip from his tea. "We've been through this before when I told you to take the chance, text her back. I don't … I just want you to be happy."

“There’s no chance to be taken, John. Not with her.”

John stares at him, willing the tea to finally cool, so he could drink it without burning his tongue every time.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“No, you are.”

“Yeah, I think we established that the day I moved in with you,” John answers, intending to make it sound funny and failing at it.

"We have indeed," Sherlock tells him, his lips curling upward. "But back to the point, it would never work out, John. I'm not interested in her the way she is interested in me, which is purely physical, I can assure you. Besides, I think I am allowed to decide I'd rather not engage in a ‘relationship' – I'm not entirely certain it could be called that – of that nature."

John shakes his head. He should have known. Sherlock doesn’t do this sort of thing. Why did he get his hopes up? Looking down into his mug, he says, “Of course, I get it. You’d rather choose to be alone.” He isn’t able to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"John." Sherlock's deep baritone rumbles through the flat, resonating in John's rib cage. Sherlock has never said his name so seriously. "If I wanted to be alone, I would be not living with you, and a child, in a shared flat."

John doesn't reply, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock seems to sense his insecurity and thus speaks on. "The point is, that I very much want you – and Rosie – to live here. I could have easily chosen to be alone, as you rightfully pointed out, but I did not. I want you around. I nee–" He stops himself there, drinking a bit of his tea. He clears his throat once and tries to cover his slip that John noticed anyway. “I want you around. Both of you.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beats him to it. "I'm not alone, John."

"This isn't what I meant, though. I meant a relationship," John objects.

"Why are you so determined to set me up with somebody?" Sherlock asks. "With her, specifically."

John fidgets in his chair. "Because love can be so fulfilling. It enriches your life!"

"Yes, especially when the love of your life is an assassin intending to kill you," Sherlock replies sarcastically to which John just glares at him. "Besides, before Mary, before my ... death, you were perfectly happy without relationships. You even gave up dating!"

"Yeah because I thought we–" John's eyes widen as he realises what he was going to say and he stops himself mid-sentence.

"Because you thought we?" Sherlock asks carefully.

Of course he would notice. Great. Now he is forced to have this conversation a lot sooner than he has planned or expected. At almost three o clock in the bloody morning.

His mouth feels dry, and the more often he swallows, the worse it gets. He is about to fuck things up even more, isn't he? He's not even remotely good at talking about this, but he knows he can't divert the conversation into another direction anymore.

"Because we … oh, bloody hell." John rubs a hand over his face, sighing deeply. The grip around his mug tightens. "Nothing. Forget it, Sherlock, I don't even know what I was going to say myself."

"That is evidently a lie," Sherlock states, and in a second, he is back in full deduction-mode. He is leaning forward in his chair, eyes scanning John. "There is clearly something on your mind. It's pretty evident, and it's not very hard to spot your uneasiness. The way you are trying to set me up with people, the way you talked about 'lost chances' when I received Irene's text a couple of weeks ago, the way you almost interrogated me several times about my emotions and needs – John, for God's sake, if there is something on your mind, say it!"

John flinches. He knows Sherlock is right, he knows he can't hide his thoughts forever - but he can at least try, right? "I don't want to put our friendship at risk," he says.  _And my mental health_ , he adds in his mind.

"You won't," Sherlock promises, his voice calm and reassuring. He's so much warmer than John has ever seen him, and he briefly wonders if that is due to the talk they had a couple of nights ago. "Just talk to me, John. That's what people do, don't they?"

John bites his lip, nodding. "That first evening at Angelo's," he begins but trails off soon after, not knowing how to express his thoughts.

"That night you weren't just asking out of curiosity, were you?" Sherlock finishes for him.

John avoids his gaze, closing his eyes, but he nods.

"And when you were counting all those texts I got from Irene, you were, in fact, jealous and not annoyed." It's not a question anymore; it's a statement. John decides to let Sherlock talk. He'll find out soon enough anyway, and he's much more eloquent at putting his thoughts into words.

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes never leaving John. "So I did not misinterpret your look during your wedding, did I?"

John's head shoots up, and he stares at Sherlock.

"Before your first dance with Mary," Sherlock clarifies. "You didn't look happy."

"Neither did you," John silently replies.

Sherlock shrugs, putting his cup to the side. The tea is now cold. "I wasn't."

“You left early,” John states stupidly. “I’ve been looking for you after our dance, but you were gone.”

“There was no point in me staying,” Sherlock tells him.

John doesn’t want to imagine Sherlock going back to the empty flat. Alone in the silent darkness before he would decide to get a new dealer and go for self-destruction once again.

He can’t talk about this now. He would end up apologising as he had a few nights ago and Sherlock would vehemently tell John not to seek fault in himself.

John drinks the rest of his tea and sets mug down on the table beside him. Bad decision. Now he doesn’t have anything to hold onto. “I thought I did the right thing,” he says, thinking of the wedding, Mary. God, the mess she had brought into their lives.

He can practically feel Sherlock’s quizzical look. “Marrying her,” John explains and looks up at Sherlock. He falls quiet for another three seconds before he continues, “I thought I loved her.”

“John–“

“No. I thought I did. Maybe I still loved her, back then. She was there when–“

 _When you weren’t_ , he thinks, but can’t say it out loud.

“–after you jumped. She helped me through … an awful time. I thought I owed her. She was, she  _seemed_  … ordinary.”

_Not like you._

“And I thought I wanted ordinary. I thought I wanted a normal life, in the suburbs, a family. But I didn’t. Bloody hell, Sherlock, it was so boring. I couldn’t stand it.”

When he realises Sherlock’s growing shock, he swallows hard. He wishes there was still some tea left. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Rosie. She’s everything. I wouldn’t give her up for the world. It’s just– I wasn’t ready to be a father, and Mary seemed to know  _everything_  about being a mother. She took care of her whenever she needed her mummy. In the beginning, I couldn't even make her stop crying. You sometimes look at helpless parents whose child keeps wailing, drawing all the attention to them in public and you can't understand that they don't know what to do to make it better. You think you'd know what to do to stop your child from crying, but you don't.  _I didn’t_. I thought I was a terrible father–“

"I have told you before, and I'll gladly do it again, John. You're doing yourself a disservice–"

“No,” John shakes his head. “I got better at it when she thought it appropriate to leave us behind. I felt that when she was gone, I could finally breathe again. But I was so angry with her. I didn’t care what she did to me, but I was angry because she left her own daughter behind. I think I already knew that our marriage was falling apart then. I just didn’t know what to feel. I’ve already tried to save our marriage once, and I didn’t know if I could go through that again. I wanted to try because I was committed to whatever it was we had. A divorce was unthinkable because I knew Rosie couldn’t stay with me. But leaving her with Mary wasn’t something I wanted either. The only thing I knew was that I shouldn’t have cheated on her.”

He inhales deeply and closes his eyes for a brief second. “When she died– God, I don’t even want to bring this up again.” But he has to. He has to tell him everything. He deserves to know. 

“I felt so guilty. Before you texted, I was about to tell her what I’d done, but then I didn’t. I never told her until–“ 

_Until she turned up in my head and kept talking to me about what I should do._

“The guilt turned into anger towards you because,” he laughs at how stupid he has been, “because I thought I  _still_  had a chance to fix everything. As if that ever worked. Me, fixing something." 

"John …" Sherlock begins, but this time John interrupts him with another breathless laugh.

“No, please, Sherlock, don’t try to defend my choices,” he pleads and leans forward onto his knees, looking at the space between their feet. “Hell, I didn’t even want to say any of this." 

His eyes start stinging again, and it's difficult to breathe. "What I meant to say is … whatever it was that I felt for her once," he looks into Sherlock's eyes, "it does not at all come close to what I feel for you."

Sherlock's eyes widen, and his breathing comes to a halt. 

“Yes, I wanted more that first night at Angelo’s. I hated Irene texting you. I didn’t want to  _believe_  it when I saw Janine coming out of your bedroom, wearing your  _shirt_  and  _joining_  you in the bathroom. Practically forcing herself onto your lap like that and you kissing her goodbye,” John laughs disdainfully at himself and how silly he was, getting jealous like a teenager over their first crush.

Suddenly, there’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth.

“You don’t need to laugh,” John says. “I know you don’t do this sort of thing. I shouldn’t have told you– I should– Yeah, I should go back upstairs.” He gets up and makes for the door, not wanting to look back, but Sherlock saying his name freezes him on the spot.

Sherlock says his name differently then. If John isn't mistaken, his voice is even shaking a little. He turns, blinking at the detective who has risen from his chair, hands loosely at his side, eyes fixed on John. 

"It's called John."

John frowns, looking at Sherlock with an I-don't-understand face.

"The composition," Sherlock clarifies. " I lied … It had a name from the beginning. John." 

John's heart skips a beat. He curls his fingers into a fist. "Wh-?"

Sherlock just stands and stares, not moving a muscle.

It feels like an eternity to John, the silence that settles between them. They look into each other's eyes, neither daring to look away, but both are displaying an uncomfortable uneasiness on their faces. This is new, for both of them, so new and fragile, and different.

John opens his mouth to speak but soon closes it again, then takes a step towards Sherlock, gesturing with his hand. "How … how long?"

Sherlock shakes his head so slowly, John barely notices. "Let's not talk about that."

Another step. "I think … I think we really should talk. About this. Us."

Sherlock is breathing a little faster now.

Nervousness.

John doesn’t feel any different.

“A long time,” Sherlock finally says.

John dares to step closer, not wanting to press too hard but he needs to know. "How long is that?" he asks quietly and cautiously.

Sherlock huffs a laugh that almost sounds sad. He swallows. Once. Twice. And a third time before inhaling deeply. Bracing himself for John's answer? " … Seven years."

All the air leaves John’s lungs.

"Why the hell did you never say anything?" John whispers, taking another step.

A pained look lies in Sherlock's eyes, making John's chest ache so badly it becomes hard to breathe. "It never mattered."

John cannot believe what he is hearing. "Never mattered?" he asks, his voice silent and breaking. "How could you ever, ever think it doesn't matter what you feel? Sherlock …" His heart is breaking piece by piece to see Sherlock like this. True, whenever John had tried to get Sherlock to talk about his feelings or thoughts, he would usually brush it off. But to think that the detective had never said anything because he thought it wouldn't matter – that's entirely too much for John's liking.

He fights the urge to raise a hand and grab Sherlock's shoulder in a comforting way. "You listen to me, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you might call yourself a sociopath transport or transport … or whatever it is you think of yourself, what people told you you are. But you  _need_  to know that to me, you aren't."

John has to gulp, feeling how his own eyes are starting to water. Forgotten is his frustration, his anger from only moments ago.

"If I had had any idea that you felt that way–"

"Then what?"

John breathes in, then out again. "I don't know what I would have done then," he admits. "I would've …" he trails off and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Heck, Sherlock, I don't know what I would've done. Come to terms with what I’ve felt, probably.”

He thinks of all the times he argued he wasn’t gay. How much that must have hurt Sherlock.

“I’ve been an idiot …" he whispers. "I just know that I would have been very happy had you told me," he says. "And I know that I will never allow you to think that lowly of yourself again. You matter, and even if you don't to some people, you do to Mycroft and Greg and Molly and Mrs Hudson and Rosie, and your parents. And most of all, to me."

Sherlock’s face looks troubled, as is always does when something is bothering him.

John thought they were going in the right direction, but it's never easy for them. Especially this isn’t.

“Jesus, Sherlock, just– say something,” he says breathlessly.

"I knew I made a mistake that night at Angelo's when I turned you down. I was hoping I'd get another chance at some point because it's only been a day, but …,” he clears his throat. “You insisted you weren’t gay and never passed up an opportunity to mention that, so I–“ He stops and remains silent for quite some time, probably not knowing how to continue. “Our friendship always meant more to me than anything else.”

“I’ve been such an idiot,” John whispers and only then realises he said it out loud. He takes another step forward. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realised. God, everything you’ve done for me and I–" 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is steady. “You are more than your mistakes.”

John breathes out slowly. “Are you sure?” he asks. “’Cause I’m full of them.”

“We both know that’s not the truth,” Sherlock says.

“I don’t even know the truth anymore,” John answers ruefully and closes his eyes. “I’m not who people think I am." 

Sherlock closes the space between them until they are mere inches apart. John looks up at him. “You may not the be who people think you are, but I’m quite certain you’re the man  _I_  think you are. And that’s all I need to know.”

Sherlock’s face is so close now.

Tears gather in John’s eyes. “And you still want me?”

“How much more obvious do I have to be?” Sherlock asks in a hushed susurration.

John huffs a breath of laughter through his tears.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. He locks eyes with him for the hundredth time that night. He can see his dilated pupils and feel his breath on face. “What is it that you want?” It’s so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

He wants everything. He wants it so much that it makes his chest contract because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Least of all with Sherlock who suffered so much from what John had done already. If he screws this up, he’ll lose him and everything that still holds his life together. But God, he wants this, he wants  _him_  so badly.

“I would really like to kiss you.”

He hears Sherlock breathe in deeply. John lets his hand wander to Sherlock’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his sharp cheekbone. His other hand disappears in the mess of Sherlock's dark soft curls. And then he seals their lips together.

It's a mere brush of lips at first, a gentle press, but it's enough to make John's head spin. It feels as if the world is finally moving again, just at the speed of light.

His fingertips scrape gently over Sherlock’s scalp and he elicits a gasp from Sherlock, taking the chance to catch his lower lip between his own and causing Sherlock's fingers to tighten in the fabric of John's shirt.

It might have been seconds, it might have been hours, but for John, time stands still. His brain only focuses on Sherlock's lips on his. It's so different from what he had imagined and yet it feels so, so right. 

It's a game of giving and taking they play; with one of them always urging the kiss on, not wanting it to stop; the other soft and pliant. Their hearts beat fast but both in sync; their breathing comes hard and panting.

Never before has a kiss done this to John, has never excited him this much. His whole body tingles, his skin overly sensitive to each and every one of Sherlock's touches.

John feels Sherlock's fingers trailing over his face gently, mapping every inch and every feature of his body, even softly brushing over his lashes. Sherlock is relishing in this moment as much as John is.

But in the end, they do have to part for air. They part hesitantly, reluctantly, their lips have been locked together for as long as possible, and then they brush their noses and foreheads together, eyes opening slowly, slowly, as if returning from another world.

Both are breathing hard still, and John can feel his heart threatening to jump out his ribcage. His fingers travel down to grab Sherlock's hand, intertwine with his digits, hold him tight. "I can't quite believe this is happening."

"Neither can I," Sherlock breathes, and they look into each other's eyes for a long moment, and they would have for much longer had it not been for Rosie who starts crying right there, right then. 

John shakes his head, huffing a laugh. "She couldn't have possibly chosen a worse time."

Sherlock smiles, but a hint of disappointment lingers in his eyes. John wants to close the terrible gap between them and kiss him again, kiss it away until their lungs are screaming for air.

But he knows he can’t. Not now. Not quite yet.

“I should–,” he begins, but doesn’t move an inch.

“All right,” Sherlock says quietly, his voice hoarse and husky.

John extricates himself reluctantly from Sherlock’s arms and it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

He walks towards the corridor, but his eyes remain on Sherlock who is standing in the middle of their sitting room, looking a little lost and disenchanted. 

When John turns around, Sherlock speaks up, making him stop immediately.

“John.”

“Yes?”

"Will …" Sherlock's fingers twiddle with his dressing gown and he has to clear his throat before he continues. "Will you come back downstairs afterwards?"

Something clenches in John's chest as he hears Sherlock's whispered, pleading words full of uncertainty and hope. He looks adorable standing there – and yes, that truly is the only word fitting the look on the detective's nervous face.

John quickly breaches the gap between them with two large strides, grabs Sherlock's neck and pulls him down for a hard kiss, ending with a loud smacking noise. "Of course I will, idiot," he says affectionately, presses a kiss to Sherlock's nose and jogs up the stairs. He can barely stop himself from blowing Sherlock a kiss before entering Rosie's room to calm her down.

Rosie is wailing, seemingly distressed and angry at having been neglected for longer than necessary. “Oh, sweetheart,” John murmurs and picks her up. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?” he asks, holding her close to his chest for a little before starting to rock her gently. 

His hand trails over her curly hair as he whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

The wails soon turn into little sniffles and hiccups, and it doesn't take long until he feels a small weight on his collarbone where she rests her head. He presses a little kiss to her forehead and puts her back down in her crib. "Sleep well, princess," he says quietly and sneaks out of the room silently.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs and stands in the doorway to the living room, he finds Sherlock gone. His heartbeat picks up instantly and an ache starts to build in his chest. Didn’t he want to wait? 

He hears a soft clatter from the kitchen and follows the noise; the image unfolding in front of him is a rare one. Sherlock is washing up the mugs. He never does the washing-up. Sherlock hasn’t noticed him yet, apparently deep in thought. 

John walks towards him. “What are you doing?” he asks softly. 

Sherlock spins around as if he didn’t expect John to be back so soon. He reaches for a towel and John can see his fingers are trembling just a little. “Thought I could make myself useful,” he swallows, grabbing a mug and drying it. “While you were gone.”

He is nervous.

John smiles and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. He's not seen Sherlock this nervous before, and he takes pleasure in the fact that this nervousness has been caused by  _him_ ; the most ordinary person he knows. 

"You seem a bit on edge," John teases and grins as Sherlock turns his head away, busying himself with the mug again. He is probably cleaning it the third time. John slowly steps closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock from behind, breathing in his scent.

He feels Sherlock relax into his embrace. "How's Rosie?" Sherlock asks, completely avoiding John's question.

"Fine. Probably just a bad dream. She's fast asleep again now, though," John replies, tightening his hug. "You're not answering my question."

“All right.” Sherlock sets the mug down, grabbing the sink, clearing his throat. "Well, I am not nervous. I wonder what makes you think that." 

"Oh," John says, "maybe it's your trembling or your sweet little blushing or the fact that your pulse has gone up ever since I stepped behind you."

"You cannot possibly feel my pulse," Sherlock retorts. "You don't have your fingers on any of the pulse points."

"Don't need to," John replies. "Your heart is beating so fast I can feel it thumping against your ribs." He rests his hands on Sherlock's waist, carefully turning him around to face him. He smiles up at Sherlock, sees how the detective's eyes dart down to his own lips. So John stands up on tiptoes, pressing a loving kiss to Sherlock's mouth who gasps again, hands coming up to trail through John's hair.

John can't suppress a quiet hum. He folds his arms around Sherlock's middle until his hands come to rest on his back. This time, he dares to take another step. He parts his lips just a little wider to let his tongue sneak out, asking for permission to be let in. It takes Sherlock by surprise, and it's about three seconds before he responds and meets his tongue. He tastes like tea and sugar and home.

One hand in John’s hair tightens; the other wanders down to his neck, fingers running over a sensitive spot just behind his earlobe.  _Already trying to figure me out_ , John thinks and grins into the kiss. He thinks of the song Sherlock wrote for him, exposing his innermost feelings, what he's been wanting and longing for all this time.

_We can have it now. Together._

John tightens the embrace – until there’s no space left between them – and pulls back, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

His tongue darts out and he licks his lips that are already slightly swollen. "Let me hear it again," he asks, voice hoarse from earlier activities. "Please. Play the song again for me."

Sherlock leans forward, kissing his cheek, smiling against his skin. "You just put Rosie back to sleep. We shouldn't risk waking her up again."

"She didn't wake when you played earlier," John answers, trying not to sound too disappointed. "I just … I'd love to hear it again."

Sherlock nuzzles John's cheek, cupping the back of his head gently. "Tomorrow. I think I'll need to make a couple of adjustments to the song. Finish it."

John's eyes fall closed, his skin prickles from the tender touches. Relief rushes through him because they have finally got here; they finally get to have this after having taken so long. "Adjustments?" he whispers. "It already sounded marvellous to me."

"It's about you, after all, so it can be nothing but marvellous," Sherlock breathes, kissing John softly. "But now that I was able to experience … this …" Another kiss. "There is more I need to add."

John hums softly. Who knew Sherlock could be that much of a romantic? He buries his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck, holding him close. "I wish there was some other way you could play for me."

Sherlock’s fingers come up to rest on John's shoulders. He’s so close his breath is ghosting over John's skin and sending shivers down his spine.

John instinctively closes his eyes when Sherlock's fingers trail up to his neck, barely touching, warming his skin. It feels as though Sherlock begins to play a silent instrument, strumming chords John can feel but not hear, eliciting a soft melody from his heart, making his muscles sing and his blood respond in kind. Sherlock taps his fingers, stroking over John's neck with his other hand as he would with a bow, and John starts trembling, his knees threatening to give way. The music he heard before resonates in his whole body, and he feels alive, so incredibly alive.

It's always like that with Sherlock, isn't it? Adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart beating faster with every smile and touch and look Sherlock grants him. And John loves it. He knows he does. And he needs it, too.

He needs Sherlock.

Involuntarily, John's hands rise and grab Sherlock's shirt at his sides, Sherlock’s fingers never ceasing to play.

John breathes faster, harder. He licks his lips again, hears Sherlock gasp and exhale loudly. His fingers tighten their grip on the shirt, holding him close and tight.

They stand like this long after Sherlock has stopped playing on John's skin. His forehead comes to rest against John's brow; both have closed their eyes, just  _feeling_.

Feeling, and hoping, and wishing, and loving.

He doesn’t know how much time had passed or how it happened at all, but eventually, they’re in Sherlock’s bed, limbs tightly wrapped around each other. Sherlock’s head is tucked under John’s chin, his breath warm on John’s chest. John breathes in Sherlock’s scent, the smell of his ridiculously expensive shampoo and something that is just Sherlock.

It’s almost unbelievable.

Before John drifts off to sleep, he finds himself hoping against hope that this,  _this_  might be it. The moment that is going to turn both their lives around and make them into something incredible. Something good. Something great.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

John wakes early the next morning, feeling unusually well-rested. His skin feels warm, his vision is fuzzy, his nose tickles a little, and under his fingertips, he feels the soft and steady thumping of someone else's heartbeat. Sherlock.

Their positions have changed during the night. Sherlock has turned around, and John's arms have wound protectively around him. Now, they lie pressed together back to chest.

His lips curl into a drowsy smile.

He had given up all hope that he might have this one day. Yet here they are.

Calm. 

Peaceful.

No signs of the mess into which they had got themselves. No signs of the fears and the shattered hopes threatening to overwhelm them at some point. No sign of the storm through which they had sailed. Just the quiet aftermath.

He lies there for a while, just breathing – inhaling the scent of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive and yet infuriatingly sweet smelling shampoo, nuzzling into the soft curls, brushing his lips over his nape. His arm tightens instinctively around Sherlock’s still sleeping form.

Sherlock stirs a little as his breaths become shorter until he breathes in deeply and cranes his neck, turning around in John’s arms.

“Good morning,” John greets him with a fond grin and runs his fingers over Sherlock’s flushed cheek.

"Good morning indeed." The deep baritone resonates through the room, still husky from sleep.

He shuffles closer and buries his face in John’s neck, warm breath grazing over his warm skin.

They fall quiet for a while, but no words are needed. Just them waking up slowly, becoming one with the reality they thought was lost. A reality they never expected to be an option. Not after all the wasted opportunities, the chances that were within their grasp but slipped away before they gathered up the courage to reach for them.

“You’re up early,” Sherlock murmurs after a few minutes in which John has been drifting between sleep and waking.

John glances down at his watch. It’s barely seven.

“Rosie will wake up soon,” he answers.

“She sleeps about 13 hours at night. We still have some time.” Sherlock’s voice is deeper than John ever heard it, relaxed and at ease, rumbling lightly. “I checked on her earlier when she was complaining a little, but she went back to sleep quite quickly.”

“Thank you,” John answers and pulls him even closer, although that’s not possible.

“No need. You were sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

John smiles at that. “Let me guess. You haven’t slept at all.”

“I have,” Sherlock counters, seeking the comfortable warmth radiating off John’s chest. “Quite well, too. Waking up to someone breathing next to you is an experience I’m not accustomed to but have no objections to whatsoever."

“That’s good to hear,” John tells him, “very good, in fact.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Because I intend to sleep in this bed with you for as long as you’ll have me,  _if_  you’ll have me, that is.”

Sherlock lifts his head and looks at him. His gaze is stern and disbelieving. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

He wants to interject that he merely wanted to be sure, but next thing he knows is Sherlock's lips on his and a tongue sneaking forward to meet his own. He kisses back and only just manages to get "morning breath" out while Sherlock's insistent mouth does the most wonderful things.

“I’ve waited for this for years,” Sherlock whispers when his lips leave John’s for the briefest of instants. “Do you truly think I care about trifles like this?”

“Point made,” John chuckles, and they resume their glorious snog.

Minutes pass – or maybe hours? John doesn't know, has lost his feeling of time while engrossed in this wonderful, magical cloud with Sherlock. He chuckles at this romantic cliché that can be found in every book and film ever, the forgetting of time, and finds that you  _do_  actually lose your feeling for how much time has passed. He just knows that every moment they share never lasts long enough. If John could, he'd spend the rest of his life with Sherlock in his arms, always kissing, never parting.

Rosie stays quiet, too, not disturbing them in their bliss. John snuggles closer to Sherlock, tightening his embrace around his lank body.

Sherlock's hand on his hip and the constant caress of warm fingers against his skin tell him this can't be a dream, but it still feels surreal to finally have this, lying here next to the person who has continuously been so close and yet always out of his reach. He thinks of Eurus – whoever and wherever she might be – her ill intent that had left him in a place he was almost unable to leave. The coma dream that had shattered his view of reality.

And now he lies in Sherlock’s – their? – bed as if nothing has happened at all.

“Stop thinking out loud,” Sherlock murmurs against his neck, making John’s eyes widen a little.

He hasn’t, has he? No, he–

“I haven’t.”

“I could still hear it,” Sherlock tells him with a smirk.

John sighs. There's no point in hiding this from Sherlock. He knows anyway. John blinks up at him, eyebrows drawn to together.

Sherlock's smirk disappears, and he sits up a little, running a hand over John's arm. "What's wrong, John? What is it?"

"Nothing, I … I just remembered something. From my coma. Again." He scoffs. "For the umpteenth fucking time. Because that stuff just won't leave me alone." Sherlock nods, signalling him to go on if he wants to, making sure he knows he doesn't have to, though.

"It all felt so real – although it made no sense, it felt real." He runs a hand through his hair. "That woman, the one who shot me, she was your sister, locked up in a fortress on an island."

John tells him about the way she controlled people’s minds, how he was forced to shoot the governor, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, how she played with their minds, too, how lost and scared and desperate he felt when Sherlock was forced to say “I love you” to Molly when Eurus threatened to blow up her flat.

"Your fixation of my being with a woman seems to get a little out of hand," Sherlock comments, and John can't help but laugh because he knows it's supposed to brighten the mood.

Sherlock presses a kiss to John's forehead, suddenly growing very quiet and very warm. "I have not known true happiness until you walked into my life, John, ever since you came into the lab at Bart's, you've had … such a huge impact on me." John feels elegant fingers running through his hair, drawing calming circles on his skin. "Molly is a great friend, and she matters a great deal, but she couldn’t be any more than that."

John kisses him hard, parting Sherlock’s lips and darting his tongue into his mouth. It’s wet and messy and desperate, but he doesn’t care. “You matter a great deal, too,” he huffs out when they pull apart for air, “you have for so long. I’ve  _known_  for so long, but I kept denying it to myself, and then it was too late and–" 

“It wasn’t too late, John. You have to stop dwelling on the past,” Sherlock answers, and his voice is calm but insistent.

“You say that as if I didn’t put you through hell.”

A sad smile appears on Sherlock’s face. He falls quiet for a little while – a silence that seems to stretch on forever, threatening to suffocate John.

“People sometimes do horrible things for reasons that seem appropriate and justified at that moment. The crucial thing is that they realise their mistakes. Some never reach that stage. What happened is in the past. You can’t undo it. You must learn to acknowledge and accept your wrongs.”

John’s smile is tight. Something that isn’t quite a laugh and not quite a sob wants to break free from his throat. “Don’t ever call  _me_  a romantic again.”

“I learnt from the master, didn’t I?”

John cuddles up to Sherlock again, breathing in his scent. "Let's stay like this for a little longer," he asks, and they do.

Eventually, though, Sherlock stretches reluctantly. 

"John, I think I should head upstairs and check on Rosie. She's been unnaturally quiet today, and while I don't think there is any reason for concern, she might be coming down with a cold or something. It's going around again."

"God, I hope she isn't," John answers. "But after that rainstorm that surprised us during our walk two days ago …"

Sherlock presses a kiss to John's forehead. "No need to blame yourself. If she caught it, it's not your fault. I'll check on her, just a moment." With a smile, Sherlock turns and leaves the bedroom, leaving John with a smile on his face.

He gets up – it only takes a second before he misses the warmth of the bed – busies himself in the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and prepares tea for the both of them as well as breakfast for Rosie.

Sherlock calls his name urgently from upstairs. His heart sinks before he even knows what is going on. “John!”

Heavy footsteps on the stairs; Sherlock is breathing hard. His face is pale. 

“What?” John asks immediately.

“Rosie’s not in her crib.”

“Maybe Mrs Hudson came up to take her for a bit and we just didn’t hear–”

Before he let him finish the sentence, he was already in the corridor, rushing downstairs. John follows carefully – his wound has mostly healed by now, but his chest still aches when he walks too quickly.

“No, Sherlock, I don’t have the little one. What–“

“She’s not in her crib,” he hears Sherlock say from the stairs and quickens his pace despite the stinging that is probably about to make itself known.

"Argh!" Sherlock groans and runs his hands through his curls, tugging hard. John immediately reacts, grabbing Sherlock's wrists and holding them steady, trying to calm him down. It works; Sherlock's fingers loosen their grip a little.

"What do we do now?" John asks, forcing himself to sound calm and collected, though is heart is thumping wildly, and he feels like he is trembling all over. An all too familiar uneasiness settles down heavily in his stomach, and he feels like he might be sick.

“We have to get Mycroft involved,” Sherlock says at once. “He’s put surveillance on the entire city. Whoever took her must be on the footage.”

John nods and steps back for Sherlock to head back up to their flat. He sees him take two steps at a time, sometimes three, while he struggles to keep his breathing even climbing up himself. When he reaches the top of the stairs, Sherlock is already talking rapidly on the phone. John has to steady himself on the back of his armchair or else he might topple over because his legs are shaking so much. 

_Where is Rosie? Who would want to harm her? Harm them? Where could they have taken her? Why would they have taken her? And how has nobody noticed?_

He doesn’t want to think about anyone hurting his little girl, but he can’t brush the thought away. His hands are gripping the armchair tightly; so strongly his knuckles turn white at the pressure.

When he hears Sherlock say his name repeatedly, his head snaps up. “What?”

“John. We’ll find her, I promise. I’m so sorry. I–“

“Why would you apologise?” John whispers, shaking his head disbelievingly.

“If you had slept upstairs last night, this wouldn’t have happened. If we hadn’t– if I hadn’t distracted you–“

"No," John says firmly. "No, Sherlock, don't even dare to go there. This has  _nothing_  to do with us, you understand? Nothing. Don't blame this on us, don't blame our relationship. I know your impulsive reactions, and I won't allow you to go through with them this time, too." He grabs Sherlock by the shoulder and gently shakes him. "I don't blame you for this. So don't blame yourself either."

"But–"

"No bloody buts!" John growls. "We couldn't have known! Hell, sometimes I don't even wake up when she needs me, and we're sleeping in the same room. We have to assume the kidnapper was silent."

Sherlock is standing in front of him, a safe distance of about three feet between them. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, merely clasping them together to do anything at all. John reaches out for him, but Sherlock still hesitates.

Sherlock's gaze on him is so intense John feels as though he might collapse. And then he understands.

_Oh, God._

_He’s back at the aquarium_ , it hits him. He’s projecting the situation to their current one; thinking he is responsible for putting them in a dangerous situation in the first place. Not realising what is happening until it’s too late, until events are unchangeable, until the inevitable happens. He had reached out for John back then and John pushed him away forcefully and venomously. Now he’s keeping his distance, in spite of himself.

John approaches him slowly, observing his reactions carefully as not to make the situation any worse than it is.

"I'm not blaming you," he whispers. "Do you hear me? This isn't your fault, all right? You are not at fault. Neither of us is."

He could see Sherlock’s bottom lip quivering. “If something happens to her–“

John shakes his head. It’s arduous to stay calm, but he knows he has to. “We mustn’t think about that.”

“We have to consider–“

Another step. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand. His palm is sweating.

"First of all, we need to make sure you're okay before we consider any other steps to take," John says with determination in his voice. He squeezes Sherlock's palm gently, wrapping his other arm carefully around Sherlock's waist. "Wherever Rosie is, I can feel she is fine. A father knows that. And since you're her dad, too, you should feel the same."

Sherlock exhales shakily. "I'm not … I …"

John stands on tip-toes to press a kiss to Sherlock's chin. "Calm down. I can only imagine what's going through your head, but knowing you, it's not entirely pleasant. Look, let's just sit down and try to keep– As long as there's nothing to do for us, we have to stay calm for this. Keep a clear mind. For Rosie."

Sherlock nods, swallowing hard. 

“I’ll phone Greg and then we'll go up, investigate the room, and find the bastard who did this."

Sherlock looks at John with glassy eyes. "I can't treat Rosie like just another case, like another number. She is way too dear to me for that, if something has happened to her, I could never forgi–"

"I don't expect you to treat her like another case, I know she's as much of a daughter to you as she is to me," he grasps Sherlock's hand, watching out for any sign that might be interpreted as being unsettled and uncomfortable by having him this close right now. He is heedful as not to crowd him too much when he can't bear the touch. "But we have to focus on the now. Not the what-ifs. If something happened to her, I would never forgive myself either, but this has got nothing to do with blaming you. Yes?" John squeezes his hands gently.

Sherlock nods again. “Yes,” he says, “yes.” He rests his head against John’s and exhales with a tremble.  

"Good," John whispers and gives Sherlock a final squeeze. "Now you go and sit down, I'll get the kettle going and call Greg." Sherlock obeys him and flops down in a chair, staring into the distance with unfocused eyes. John hurries to get the kettle boiling for the second time that morning, then takes out his phone to tap in Greg's number. He fills the DI in as quickly and as thoroughly as he can while Sherlock sips his tea lethargically.

John ends the call, then stands behind Sherlock to rub his back. "Ready when you are," he says quietly, waiting for Sherlock – and only Sherlock – to signal him that it's okay to have a look at Rosie's bedroom.

Sherlock gets up from his chair, and together they walk upstairs to Rosie's nursery. John stands by the door, letting Sherlock examine the room. He didn't want to destroy even the most minute clue by accidentally leaving his own footprints all over the place.

“Whoever took her came in through the window,” Sherlock murmurs quietly, kneeling down to take a look at the floorboards with his magnifying glass.

"How do you know?" John asks. "I mean, it's fairly obvious. We would have noticed if someone stepped in through the front door and everything, but – there is no balcony outside. No plant to climb up on. It's a busy street, even in the middle of the night due to the tube station. Wouldn't people notice a person climbing up the wall? And even if they didn't, how on earth did that person get up here?"

"Do you see the pattern of the dirt on the floor? It's part of the footprint. Distributed evenly. The soil has dried a little by now, but when the kidnapper climbed in through the window and landed on the floor, it was still a little wet. Therefore it came off easily as the impact was more forceful that the weight of a normal – in this case light – step would have been. There's no other way the dirt could have ended up just beneath the sill. The fact that it is a busy street opposes the theory, but most likely it was a risk the kidnapper was willing to take. He or she was willing to take the risk of being seen this way rather than venturing into unknown territory inside the house."

"Right." John clears his throat. "That makes sense yet doesn't explain how the hell they got up here in the first place. Jump on Speedy's awning, do the Spiderman?"

Sherlock rises and steps to the window. "Good question indeed, John. I have no idea of that myself – yet. But I'm sure a closer look both here and downstairs will solve the riddle."

It turns out whoever took Rosie away broke into the house right next to Speedy’s Café, walked over the roof and broke into Rosie’s room’s window.

John watches Sherlock search for more evidence the kidnapper may have left unintentionally. John has darkened the room as best as possible while Sherlock got his ultraviolet light to search for footprints, fibres, or other hints that have gone unnoticed so far.

He uses a scalpel to scrape loose the material imprinted on the floor. “I'll analyse this at Bart’s. Can you tell Molly I’m coming?”

"Uh … yes, of course!" John whips out his phone and taps a quick message to Molly. Briefly, he shudders at the memory of that dreadful dream sequence he had during the coma: the I love you said to the wrong person, the despair, his own hatred at that moment … he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs away and presses "send." The answer follows within seconds; Molly is happy to assist and awaits Sherlock in the lab.

Sherlock grabs his coat.

"Want me to come?" John asks, fiddling with his phone.

"Always," Sherlock says softly and kisses John.

John leans into it for two seconds, merely wanting – needing the reassurance of not having to go through this alone. He already knows this of course, but convincing his brain is harder than convincing his heart.

“We’re going to find her,” Sherlock whispers. “I promise you.”

All John is still capable of is a nod before he is forced to release himself from Sherlock's warmth. He slips into his coat and shoes, and before long, they're in a cab on their way to track down the person who took their little girl away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed it. Please let us know what you think <3


	3. Chapter 3

When they arrive at Bart's, Molly is already waiting for them in the lab, wearing an anxious expression on her face. "Sherlock, John, I'm so sorry," she says with her voice breaking and she hugs John tightly. Her eyes flicker over to Sherlock, she nods, and he nods back – they understand each other without words, and Sherlock is grateful that she didn't hug him, too.

"Whatever I can do, I will," she says. "I've changed the time of my break so that I'm off-duty for now to help you out."

"Thanks, Molly, you're a real gem," John says with a warm smile and squeezes her shoulder.

"Tea?" she offers, nervously playing with her fingers.

"No, but ta." Again, it's John who answers – Sherlock is already busying himself with the microscope.

Molly leans over to John and whispers, "What has he found in Rosie's room, then?"

John glances at Sherlock, reaching for several chemicals to analyse the substances he has gathered.

"I don't know. He didn't tell me much," John explains, clearing his throat. "Even though this is rather … personal. You know how he is when he's on a case. He doesn't want to treat her as one, but it's, well …" 

“I can hear you, you know?” Sherlock’s voice echoes in the room, but his eyes don’t leave the microscope.

John simply shakes his head and sits down at the other end of the table. He wouldn’t be of much use until Sherlock actually finds something.

It takes an eternity until Sherlock clears his throat and leans back from the microscope.

"Found anything?" Molly asks immediately.

"There are … several things, actually," he says, looking a little confused. "I've found a footprint in her room – well, not a clear print per se, but a few crumbs of soil and plants and whatever sticks to the sole of one's shoe. The kidnapper left us some clues with that."

"So, what did you find out?" Molly asks, trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's sample.

"As I said, several things," Sherlock repeats. "And they don't quite add up."

"Why's that?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes dart down into the microscope again. "There are particles of Gardenia, a plant that requires special care to grow properly. It demands high humidity and temperatures of about 60 degrees. These plants usually grow in tropical areas. We've got some fibre here, too, and I would opt for a certain carpet fibre, an expensive one at that. There are also particles of a painkiller, as far as I can see."

"An elderly people's home, maybe?" John suggests. "That'd be my first guess anyway. They've got plants and rugs, and they all have their tablets.

What's so special about Gardenias, though?" John wishes to know. "I'm not much of a botany expert." 

"Well," is Sherlock's short reply. "It's not that important to a doctor anyway. But gardenias need special care when kept inside. A particular soil, a certain temperature and high humidity. Need lots of light. Best grown in greenhouses."

"Greenhouses?" Molly frowns. "I think … I think I know a home which uses a small greenhouse for medical purposes."

Sherlock's ears perk up. "Really? Where is it?"

"Oh, if only I knew … I'm so bad with street names!"

“Molly, this is crucial!” Sherlock presses impatiently, and John lowers his hand on his back to calm him. 

“Think!" 

“I can’t remember, Sherlock. I– I’m really sorry!” Molly stammers, fumbling with her lab coat.

John silently sends a silent ‘thank you' with his eyes to Sherlock who lets it go and folds his hands beneath his chin.

His phone chimes, and he immediately gets up from his chair. The legs screech on the floor. It makes John's hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

 

10:31am

_You've got 72 hours to get your little darling back. Hurry up x_

 

John looks over Sherlock's shoulder to read the text.

"Oh my God …," he breathes and runs a hand through his hair; he stares at the microscope but can't see anything. His eyes are empty and so is his head.

"I– I need to–," he breathes, his voice crumbling under all the stress weighing him down. “I’ve got to–“ and with that, Sherlock grabs his coat and rushes out of the lab, not looking at either John or Molly for one second. With a slam of the door, he is gone.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

The corridor was already deserted when John went running after him. His texts remained unseen, his calls unanswered. Eventually, he simply went home.

He resisted the urge to open the cabinet where they stored the vodka and the scotch and went for a cup of tea instead.

Now, he is sitting on the sofa; the hot steam feels good on his cold, shivering skin, but it does nothing to calm his nerves.

Deep in thought, John doesn't know how much time passes. It seems to fly and yet to stop at the very same time. Whatever he thinks, does, feels goes by too slowly and too fast. He wishes for more time to think about how to get Rosie back, yet he wants it to pass more quickly to hold his daughter in his arms again as soon as possible.

The cup of tea in his hands goes cold; he has only drunk half of it. _You idiot, why do you always have to run off by yourself, why wasn’t I quick enough to follow you, why do you_ still _think you're better off alone when it comes to serious situations like this. I'm not good enough, right? Moron, of course you're not good enough, the sidekick, the blogger, nothing else––Stop thinking about that, stop. Stop. STOP!_

A deep breath.

 _You’ll find her. You promised. You promised, and you will. But what if you don’t–what if you can’t? What if she’s already alone, ill, helpless, lying somewhere crying, screaming her lungs out for me, for you; for you more likely ‘cause I’m a terrible father, always have been, most likely will continue to be, too; just like my own father, I’m not better, I’m not even_ better, oh god, ohgodohgod … 

His chest feels so tight, so constricted, it actually gets hard to breathe. As though someone has put a hundred pounds on him and he can't move. His head hurts, and his heart aches. _Why can’t you just answer your damn phone_ , he thinks, distraught. Despair and frustration threaten to take over him, and he can’t do anything but wait in the darkness that swallows him whole, his sight, his hearing, but not his thoughts. They keep torturing him, cutting, hitting, stinging, striking.

He lets out a frustrated scream, tears at his hair, feeling tears of anger and sadness threatening to fall.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but when he hears footsteps on the stairs that he knows only belong to one person, his eyes fly towards the door.

"Where the hell have you been and why didn't you answer your bloody phone?" isn’t what he wants to say, but the words are quicker than he can control.

"I'm so sorry, John, it was stupid, I thought it was the right track, I thought she would be there– I–" Sherlock stammers, not daring to step into the living room. He doesn't see any anger in John's eyes, but it is palpable.

"Where, Sherlock?" John gets up. Sherlock's heart rate picks up.

"Ash Court Care Centre." The words stumble out of his mouth. "They use Gardenia for therapeutical purposes. It had to be there!"

"Sherlock …"

"We– we searched the entire premises. She wasn't there, John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I–"

"Sherlock …" John reaches for his hand and takes a few steps towards him, but Sherlock involuntarily flinches and retreats.

John instantly takes his hand away.

"Sherlock," John swallows. "I'm not angry, all right? I was just– I was worried, am worried, for God's sake."

He sees the shock and the pain that lie in the lines on his forehead and between his eyes, the shock and pain at his own reaction; still wary of John’s fast approach, his rage, his despair.

And yet before John can fully process what's happening, he finds himself stumbling backwards two steps as two arms and a cold body press into him, against his chest, asking for an embrace. John does this, surprised but not unwilling, but when Sherlock's trembling body does nothing but quiver in his arms, doubts fill him whether this is right.

“You’re shaking, Sherlock.” 

He doesn’t get an answer.

“You don’t have to do this,” John whispers into his hair, stroking gently over Sherlock’s back.

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” John interjects quietly. “Forcing yourself to trust someone when you actually don’t, it’s not helping.”

“I want to trust you again, I already do– it’s– “

“Shh.” John pulls back to look at him. “I swear, I’ll prove to you that you don’t have to fear to trust me anymore, but you need to accept that we’re not there yet. We both have a hell of a lot of work to do, but we’ll get there, okay?”  
Sherlock nods slowly, his eyes gleaming in the light falling through the windows despite the darkness. He pulls him closer, needing to hear that violent heartbeat, needing to know that at least one of the two people that still keep his world together is safe, even though ‘safe' is a state that never lasts very long.

“I need to trust you, too,” John breathes. “No more running off, not this time. Please, Sherlock.”

He feels Sherlock nod against him and lets out a relieved sigh.

As wonderful as it feels and as much as John wants the embrace to continue, he realises it’s for the best to pull apart, for Sherlock’s sake whose body has stopped shaking considerably in spite of his feeling afraid, and for Rosie’s. They need to remain calm to make any progress finding her and bringing her home safe.

He can only imagine how hard this is for Sherlock, remaining strong when emotions cross his path and get in the way, especially when it comes to Rosie, but no matter how difficult and improbable it seems, they have to find a way to solve this without blaming their failures on their feelings.

Sherlock sniffles and loosens the embrace, his arms dropping to his sides, yet the tips of his fingers still gently trailing over John's waist. "All right," he says, his voice muffled due to his stuffed nose, "it's no use standing around like this, doing nothing. If we want to help Rosie, we need to continue looking for her."

John purses his lips, momentarily tightening his grip around Sherlock's waist. “One second.”

Sherlock looks at him, confused. 

"If we're going to do this – and by God, I hope we are – I need you to promise me one thing, Sherlock." John looks him straight in the eyes. "You ca _n't_ shut down. Emotionally, I mean. I realise you have to get all computer-like to find all the clues and draw all conclusions, but this is our _daughter_. It's still about _her_. About  _us_. I think this time you also need to be part-human to solve this. Promise me." 

Tears well up in Sherlock's eyes again, and this time, he doesn't try to hold them back. Being in touch with his own human side, the emotions and the vulnerability that come with it is not exactly something that makes him feel comfortable. It's a struggle every time, but the outcome is always the same – he feels better. Much better.

So he nods, grabbing John's hands and placing gentle kisses on them, the fear has subsided. He feels relieved. “I promise,” he whispers.

"Good." A smile steals onto John's face, lightening it up, straightening out those lines of worry and sorrow that seem to have multiplied during the course of the last hours. Sherlock makes John smile, and that feels good. "Now we have to help our daughter." John squeezes Sherlock's arm. "Tell me what I can do to help."

Sherlock whips out his phone and instead of an answer, holds out his cheek for John to kiss, which the doctor all too happily does. Then it's all work and no play again, and John feverishly hopes that everything will be all right.

Phone in hand, Sherlock dials Lestrade's number who picks up after the first ring. He puts it on speaker so John can hear, too, and the worried voice of the detective echoes through 221B. 

"Sherlock, what is it? Did you find anything?" 

“Yes and no,” is the curt reply, and Greg knows better not to ask. “I've narrowed the possible places where our culprit might have been right before the kidnapping down to two places. I visited one of them, ruled it out, so it's only one place left: Bart’s. I need you to send me a copy of all the people working there. I need to cross-check the names with people we know.”

Lestrade clears his throat; they can hear the clicking of a computer keyboard in the background. “I’m on it, Sherlock. So you think the kidnapper is someone you know?”

"Or at least someone who knows us, yes," Sherlock replies. "If it were just a random kidnapping, there would have been a ransom note. We would not get taunting texts. The fact that the kidnapper knew _exactly_  where Rosie's crib was and that they took her so silently … it all points to the fact that it is someone who watched us closely for a while." 

Lestrade clicks his tongue. “But wouldn't any old kidnapper just go, 'Oh, Mr Holmes is famous, let's steal his daughter'?" 

“As I said, no ransom. And puzzling texts. This is no ordinary kidnapping, and I've had my fair share of those, Lestrade. Believe me. If I tell you it's a person who knows us and that it's someone we likely know as well, then that's a fact." 

Lestrade sighs. “True. Well, here you go, I've managed to pull up the list. Sending it to you right now.”

“Thanks, Greg,” Sherlock says and hangs up, ignoring both John's shocked face and the surprised intake of breath on the other end of the phone just before the line goes dead. Sherlock pulls up his e-mail app on his phone, a  _ding_  signalling an incoming message. He opens it up, his eyes darting over every single worker at the hospital – until they suddenly come to a halt on one name in particular.

Sherlock swallows heavily.

"What? What is it?" John asks, concern evident in his voice. He steps closer to sneak a look at Sherlock's phone, and what he sees there, makes his blood go cold in his veins.

 

 _Eurus Holmes – paediatric nurse_.

 

John swallows hard. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to Bart’s. Now.”

John grabs his coat immediately while Sherlock heads for the desk's drawer to fetch John's gun. Sherlock nods towards the door then, indicating there is no time to lose and they should get going, but all John sees is Sherlock telling him it is going to be okay. They are going to bring Rosie home safely, and it will be all right. They will be all right.

With the much-needed reassurance, they walk down the stairs with heavy steps and even heavier hearts. John doesn't remember the cab ride or the walk inside the hospital. It is almost midnight; the streets are mostly deserted, but the lights of shops and cars still blind him. The bright hospital halls do so even more, but that doesn't matter. Rosie is all that matters now.

They stand at the reception desk. Sherlock explains their inquiry.

For the next couple of minutes, his heart beats so violently in his chest that there is no doubt it wants to jump out of it. He must have been staring too hard at the front desk because when Sherlock takes his hand and squeezes, it feels as though the veil lifts too quickly and exposes him to reality without any warning. Sherlock's fingers are warm, though, and it spreads through his chest; it runs through his veins until his heartbeat calms a little.

“She’s got a day off. I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the nurse tells them, and Sherlock’s fingers clench around John’s in frustration.

John exhales deeply. ''Damn," he sighs, grabbing Sherlock's sleeve and trying to pull him away. The detective seems to be frozen on the spot though.

"No, this can't be it," Sherlock mumbles. "If she's taken a day off, that must mean she is planning something and–"

The noise of an incoming text alert interrupts him. Sherlock whips out his phone, staring at the display in disbelief.

 

11:58 pm

_We are where you least expect us to be. xx_

 

Sherlock’s lids fall closed, but his eyes move rapidly behind them. John is still amazed by how quickly Sherlock disappears into his mind palace sometimes.

When his eyes open again, a bright spark appears in them. “What? What is it?” John asks immediately. 

“The rooftop. They’re on the rooftop.”

John's heartbeat picks up again. Of all places, Eurus couldn't have chosen a worse place. He feels nauseous, lightheaded, dizzy. Despite everything, he says, "What are we waiting for, then?"

“You’re staying here. I won’t risk anything, John. It’s too dangerous. You–“

“No, Sherlock. I won’t make the same stupid mistake again. I'm not letting you up there again alone, waiting down here and standing by without being able to do anything. If I am not coming, you are not going.”

John watches as Sherlock's face hardens for a second, his lips tightening into a thin line. "Fine," he breathes out between tight-pressed lips. "Fine, then come along."

They nod at each other, and Sherlock swirls around, but John makes sure to grab his hand and follow him up the stairs leading to the rooftop.

The heavy door creaks open, and a gust of cold wind blows into their facts when they step outside. Sherlock's hand trembles in John's – that view isn't exactly unfamiliar to him. Neither is it to John. He's been up here countless times after Sherlock's, well, death. If Eurus has chosen this place to torment their souls even further, well, that was a shrewd move. Very clever indeed.

Step by step they walk out on the roof, but no-one is to be seen yet.

Sherlock walks determinedly to the centre of the rooftop, slipping from John’s grasp. He whisks around, but nobody is there. “It can’t be. It has to be here. It _has_ to be,” he says desperately into the cold night air.

John comes closer, intending to speak, but before any words can leave his mouth, an all too familiar figure creeps out of the shadows.

“Nearly doubted yourself again, did you?” Her smirk is evident in her tone of voice, sending a chill down John’s back.

He wants to ask where Rosie is, but when she steps into the light, the question dies in his throat. Rosie clings to Eurus’ chest, and John immediately sees she’s too pale, despite the darkness.

“You’re back on your feet, I see.”

“Not thanks to you,” John answers, his voice cold and firm; he is grateful for it.

“I should have aimed better, but then, we can’t have everything. Besides, this is much better than murder in cold blood, isn’t it?” She asks, seriously contemplating it. “Your wife wouldn’t have missed, I suppose. She did a _great_ job killing my husband.”

“She did a great job killing many people,” Sherlock answers. “What do we have to do with this? Why does a little girl have to pay for her mother’s crimes?”

“You should have asked her that,” Eurus remarks, a wry smile on his lips. “She called her Rosamund Mary after all. Not the best way of letting your past behind you.”

“What is this all about?” John interjects, on edge.

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s arm, signalling that they needed to stay calm. “Who was your husband?”

“You would have known him by Ajay.”

Suddenly, everything becomes clear to John.

“She left him to die that day in Tbilisi, but he made it out just barely. He would have craved death; certainly, it would have been better than what he went through. Torture, pain; day in, day out.”

John looks at Sherlock for a short moment; his face is frozen, showing no emotions whatsoever. 

“When Ajay found her and confronted her, she mocked him. He followed her all the way down to Morocco where he died because of her,” she says bitterly, toying with a strand of her hair. “I actually intended to get at your wife for killing Ajay. We were so good together, and then she came along and–" Eurus interrupts herself and heaves a deep sigh. “I wanted her to suffer. I wanted her to suffer the way _I_ did. Did you never wonder why I seduced you on that bus?" She looks at John with that bittersweet grin. "It was almost too easy, but since I couldn’t hurt her by taking you away from her anymore when she died,” she says, her eyes grazing John for a mere second, “I chose the next best thing by getting my revenge by hurting you, John Watson.”

“I’m not responsible for Ajay’s death,” John tells her firmly. “Neither is my daughter!”

“Tragic, that,” she shrugs. “You should know what it feels like to lose someone dear, and yet you never did anything to stop her.”

“I didn’t even know about Ajay. I didn’t know anything about her past except that she was an assassin.”

Her smile makes him feel sick. “You loved her still, even after you learnt about it, but let’s not talk about feelings. They only cloud your judgement. Isn’t that what you always say, Mr Holmes?”

John laughs bitterly at that. “You think you’re very clever, do you?

"Oh, I am," she smirks. "You wouldn't be here if I weren't. We all make mistakes, of course – you made massive ones – and naturally, there are always some reminders of those. Now, let me remind you how much of a mistake you've made, John Watson." The smile vanishes. Instead, her lips form a tight line, and her voice is ice cold.

“What do you want?” 

“I want you to choose, John.”

“Choose what?”

The sick smile reappears on her face. “It's either him,” she pulls a gun out of her pocket and points it at Sherlock, “or her.” She gently pops Rosie up and down on her arm. “It's your decision. I'm not going to make it for you.”

For a long moment, John can’t do anything but stare. Into her face, into Rosie’s, into the air between them. He looks up at Sherlock and sees despair and surrender. He smiles sadly. _No._ _No, no, no, no, no._

“No,” John breathes and shakes his head. “You can’t…” His voice is merely a whisper.

"Oh, I can," she smiles with a sinister grimace. “Just watch me.” The gun still aimed at Sherlock, she takes a few steps to the side of the roof. “Well, how would baby Rosie like to go on the very first flight in her life, eh?”

“NO!” John screams at the top of his lungs. Even though Eurus hasn't even extended her arm, even though his daughter is still nestled as safely as possible in the crook of her elbow, he feels he needs to interject and do something. Anything.

He doesn't want to make this choice. Even the fact that he has been given a choice like this is ridiculous. Never would he thought he'd have to face someone like Eurus, having to decide between his lover's or his daughter's fate. He has been through so much ridiculous shit in his life, granted, but nothing as bad as this.

He can't choose. How could he? How could he condemn one of the people he loves most to death, to eternal quiet, when neither of them deserves this? How can he play God, when he has nothing to show for it in the first place?

The thoughts keep reeling through John's mind, his brain is working, running at the highest speed, but no answer pops into his head. Nothing he could say or do, none of it would be the right thing. He can't just go and push Eurus off the roof – she'd have his daughter flying down sooner than he'd be anywhere near her. 

He can't force Sherlock to jump again and expect him to have another trick up his sleeve, just like the last time.

He feels Sherlock’s hand on his arm and whirls around. The sad, capitulating smile hasn’t left his lips. His heart drops. It drops so deep he almost thinks he will collapse. He feels Eurus’ eyes on him, piercing him whole.

"You know what the right choice is, John," Sherlock whispers; his voice full of sorrow, and John cannot bear it.

He steps closer and reaches for his hands. He needs to feel something resembling reassurance. His chest constricts, and all the air in his lungs leaves him. Sherlock squeezes his hands gently.

“I made a vow, remember? I’ll be there for you and Rosie. This is no different.”

“So did I,” John hisses. “I can’t choose between her and you. I _can’t_!”

“John …”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“She deserves to have a future so much more than I do.”

“Stop.”

“It’s true, and we both know it.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“She’s brought so much more joy into your life than I ever could.” 

Tears well up in John's eyes. He doesn't know if it is because of how lowly Sherlock thinks of himself or because he's lying deliberately, and John has to admit to himself what a terrible father he is. He can't say it's not true although it genuinely isn't. He loves Rosie and Sherlock equally – he really does – but Sherlock has given him so much more than Rosie has. Sherlock has saved him over and over; time and time again.

“Truly touching your little speech,” Eurus comments in mock affectedness.

John wants to push her off the roof so badly, but he keeps his back turned towards her. “I cannot lose you again …” he breathes and wonders if Sherlock heard him at all because he has barely heard himself speak.

He thinks of living in an empty flat, grey and sullen, with walls closing in on him. He hears Rosie's cries and heaves himself up and out of his armchair. It's an all too familiar picture. He has already tried to live this way. It had brought him nowhere but to the edge of despair – and to the cabinet that contained the only means to make him cope. He doesn't want to live like this anymore. He simply _cannot_ live like this anymore.

“You’re a soldier, John–“

“Don’t get even start with this–“

“John.”

He looks up at him.

“Your time is running out, boys,” Eurus states, sounding annoyed by how long their debate has taken already.

“So is yours,” Sherlock says to her, his voice firm and forceful. “So is everyone’s.”

With that, his eyes are back on John. Then he seals their lips together. 

“You and I both know there is just one possible, reasonable thing to do," Sherlock says. "I thank you for all you've done for me, for all you've given me – and for Rosie. I'll always love you, John." He grabs John and kisses him again, short but loving nonetheless, in front of an eye-rolling Eurus. It gives John little consolation. He kisses back as well as he can, clinging to Sherlock’s coat. It’s over before he can get lost in the sensation, but then, this isn’t the place or the time. Sherlock lets go and walks towards the end of the roof. “It’s the right thing to do,” he repeats – whether for John or himself, the doctor couldn't possibly say. 

But then there's just one thought forming in his head: _Sherlock must not die_. John would whither without him, would stop wanting to live, and he cannot do this to himself or his daughter. Sherlock absolutely mustn’t go through this again.

Not Sherlock. 

“Goodbye, John.”

“No,” John all but sobs as Sherlock’s hands slip from his own when he heads for the edge of the rooftop.

“Must feel quite familiar to you, this,” Eurus says to John with her poisonous smile. “Same outcome. Just a different perspective.”

It feels like a dagger thrown into his heart.

_Save Sherlock. Be the hero one bloody time, Watson. Save Sherlock, save your daughter, do the right fucking thing._

_Sherlock lives means John Watson lives._

He hasn't written that on his for nothing. It was true. It still is. It's so true that it hurts. He will let neither Sherlock nor Rosie die. So there is just one logical solution …

And with that, he shoves Sherlock out of the way, watching the detective stumble out of the corners of his eyes. Then it's suddenly John at the edge of the roof, streets and cars and people hustling and bustling about underneath him, and he goes dizzy, and his heart beats faster, and his brain tells him no, but his gut screams yes and oh Jesus.

The wind is cold on his face. He drowns out the voices around him; they're a blur, a cacophony of sounds and noises, something he doesn't, cannot understand. It's all the same to him now. He doesn’t understand a word apart from _“John, no!"_  

His vision blurs; his body is shaking. _Is this what Sherlock felt like when he stood on this very edge?_

He is on the verge of toppling forward when a clamorous bang fills the air, followed by a pained scream and a crying baby. His heart races too fast, his lungs heave too much with every gulping breath he forces himself to take, his legs almost giving out under the sheer weight of guilt and fear and horror, and he trembles. Trembles on the edge of the roof, the ground so close, so close.

His ears tingle, no, scream, due to the bang that echoed so close to him. What was it? Did Eurus shoot Sherlock? Or Rosie? As punishment since he made the wrong choice and tricked her? Whatever it was, John knows he cannot go on like this. He leans forward, waiting for his skull to crush down onto the hard street, and when he feels his head collide with the hard floor, he blacks out.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

Warmth surrounds him. A warm, hazy glow embraces him lightly, gently, carefully. It takes some effort to raise his lids and open his eyes, but when he does, familiarity is all around him. There is a faint smell of their laundry detergent, and sweetness – it almost smells like Rosie's baby powder – but there is something else, too. Tea and honey and – he turns his head to the side, and his eyes fall closed again – Sherlock's ridiculously expensive shampoo.

A smile slips onto his face. If this is the afterlife, he cannot complain at all.

“You’re awake,” someone whispers; there is a hand on his own. 

The sound causes a slight pang in his head, but the cradling caress on the back of his hand soothes it.

“Am I in heaven?” John murmurs without opening his eyes. 

A soft chuckle escapes the person still holding John's hand. An angel, maybe? “You're _home_ , John.”

“Then I really must be in heaven,” John sighs, head sinking back into the pillow, the warmth pulling him back into the blissful darkness.

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

When John wakes again, he surfaces with all too clear memory of Bart's and Eurus and his little Rosie threatening to be pushed off the roof. He wakes and pants, hard, and he feels reminded of his time in Afghanistan and afterwards when he woke engulfed in sweat and frenetic heartbeats and fear.

When all he sees around him is darkness, panic rises in his chest, and he tries to sit up, which only causes a sharp pain shooting through his head. Groaning, he presses his head back against the pillow, taking deep breaths to calm down.

But then, seemingly out of the nothingness surrounding him, two hands emerge and gently find their place on his shoulders, softly and carefully pulling him up, so he comes to rest against a firm but comfortable chest. He begins to feel secure in long arms wrapped tightly around him, to feel home when he breathes in Sherlock.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice echoes in his ear. John lets out a relieved breath. He didn’t even notice his presence beside him when he woke.

“Where’s Rosie?” he croaks, his voice rough from sleeping this long.

“She’s safe, sleeping upstairs in her crib.”

"But … but the roof … Eurus…," John stammers, and Sherlock presses a kiss to his forehead.

"It's over now. Forever. It's done. There is no threat coming from Eurus anymore, and there never will again."

“I can’t remember what happened,” John answers, but hearing this has lifted a weight from his chest.

"I texted Greg before we went up there, telling him to step in should the situation get too precarious. The police arrived just in time and shot her in the leg," Sherlock tells him. "The shot presumably startled you because you almost tipped over the edge. I only just managed to get a hold of your jacket to pull you back on the roof, but your knees gave way, and you passed out on the concrete. It's a light concussion, I assume."

"It damn feels like one," John whispers into the darkness. 

“You should go back to sleep,” Sherlock admonishes quietly. “Come here.”

John complies and nestles his head against Sherlock’s chest. Hands find hips. Eyes fall closed. “We’re safe.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “We’re safe.”

 

~~––––––––––––––––––––~~

 

21st March 

_Hello, lads and ladies out there._

_You might have been wondering about the relative radio silence from both Sherlock and me on this blog. There have been some very good reasons for it, ever since the events of … well, the last case. I realise I haven't managed to write those up properly yet since a certain consulting detective and a toddler take up most of my time._

_So, to sum it up for you: A woman – E, my alleged therapist – who pretended to be Sherlock's ‘secret sister,' as she called it, was the one who got us into this mess in the first place. Having sworn to take revenge on me because she was convinced Mary was responsible for her deceased husband, E not only hospitalised me for a few weeks but also kidnapped my daughter. After a nerve-wrecking search, we thankfully found her and brought her home safe. I'll write up the whole case later for you to read. Watson is all right for now, though, so don't you worry._

_But it was close._

_Being threatened to choose between either Sherlock's life or little Watson's, I was ready to jump off a roof to save them both, and just when I was about to, I heard a gunshot behind me. The police had arrived just in time, incapacitating her and hindering her from doing any more harm to either of us. She's been arrested and with her went the dark shadow that has been hanging over us ever since Mary's death. We're doing okay now, better than okay, actually._

_As to Sherlock and me, well … Let's say I'm ultimately home. I can finally be with the person I have loved all this time although I have always refused to acknowledge it, denied it. I am done denying. I can finally look the world into the eye and say, hell yeah. We're a couple._

_And with that, I bid you goodnight. More on all of this tomorrow._

_John_  

 

John leans back in his chair, cracking the knuckles of his fingers. He yawns as he stretches, feeling his bones protesting loudly.

Two arms sneak around his waist from behind, and he feels soft curls tickle the side of his face as Sherlock's head comes to rest on his shoulders. “I ran you a bath,” he whispers. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”

John nuzzles his nose against Sherlock's cheek and presses a kiss to it before he intertwines his fingers with Sherlock's. "Thanks, love," he murmurs quietly. Sherlock shuts the laptop and sets it down on the table beside John's chair. "Come on, up you get."

John lets himself be guided to the bathroom. 

When Sherlock turns away to give him some privacy, John takes a step towards him and winds both arms around his waist.

"Don't say you're still anxious about me seeing you naked, after all the things we did," he grins against his lips.

.

.

.

It has been more than a month since they got together, and their relationship evolved into something John will never give up on. He hadn't expected Sherlock would go in for the physical aspect of romantic entanglements as he regarded it as a distraction. At least that is what John thought was the case. Sherlock had been reluctant at first; he used to let John initiate contact for the most part, partly because it was still new, partly because of his own uncertainty as to how far John was willing to go, and to some extent, John's still-healing bullet wound played a role, too.

The first time it happened was after a case that was barely a six. Sherlock was standing over the corpse, rattling off one deduction after another, and John stood there, breathless. After three minutes of the deep baritone voice jumping from one conclusion to the next with a connection Lestrade and the other officers had difficulty following, Sherlock proclaiming who the killer was – “You’ve got it form there, Lestrade?” – and then turning around to leave the crime scene, John walked over to him and kissed him … in front of everyone. He could feel their eyes on them. Their blank faces. Their blatant stares. None of it mattered right then. Their lips pressed together for just a brief moment, but it was enough.

Meaningless whispers and quiet muttering reached John’s ears, but Lestrade’s laughter drowned it all out. “You two will be the end of me,” he guffawed and clapped both of them on their shoulder.

“You just won the Yard’s bet pool, haven't you." It wasn't even a question.

Lestrade was grinning at Sherlock from ear to ear. “Damn right.”

They couldn’t get home fast enough after that. John could see that Sherlock was still amazed that he would kiss him in public out of nowhere. He didn't know what had come over him himself, but at that moment, it was the only possible thing to do.

Sherlock started kissing him as soon as the door fell shut behind them. John pressed his body against Sherlock's, reciprocating eagerly. They would have stood there forever if it hadn't been for Mrs Hudson who they knew was at home, behind a very thin door. She might be old, but her hearing had not suffered one bit over the years.

In the end, they didn't even make it to the bed. Upstairs, into the hallway, no further. Sherlock gasped when John reached down to cup his erection through the fabric of his bespoke trousers. Fully dressed, their bodies pressed together, seeking friction, rolling their hips against one another, all the while brushing their lips over each other, letting their tongues fight for the upper hand. Only on the verge of orgasm, John reached down to align their lengths and finish them off. The result of their urgent need of release was a heaving consulting detective panting against his neck. Sheepish smiles that promised more than they let on, languid touches and even sweeter kisses followed throughout the evening until they fell into bed together, their legs tangled together, their arms wrapped protectively around the body right in front of them.

The second time it happened was much more sensual, almost awkward. John guessed it was due to the fact that they saw each other naked for the first time. _Truly saw_. There were no secret glances, furtive peeks, no clandestine glimpses. They were allowed to look, to take in, to admire, to stare, to savour. It was not overshadowed by the necessity to take care of bullet wounds, stitches, bruises, or scars in a charged atmosphere in which both of them wanted to be brave enough to reach out and not let go, but never dared.

That night, John took care of Sherlock in a different way, ensuring all he felt was prickling sensations, tickling brushes over his skin, a fluttering in his belly, making sure to show him he didn't have to hold back, he didn't have to stay still, that he was beautiful and gorgeous, and loved.

There were nights when they fell straight into bed after a long and eventful day with Rosie, there were nights when they merely kissed each other goodnight because one or both them were too tired to do anything else but wind their arms around one another, and there were nights when they stumbled into the bedroom, kissing each other passionately, already tearing at one another's clothes, fumbling for buttons and zippers and hems of shirts and waistbands.

Afterwards, they both lay beside one another. Their panting breaths had subsided, and their lungs once more seemed to be satisfied with the amount of oxygen. The silence felt comfortable, at least it did to John, but then Sherlock spoke up. "Have you ever," he cleared his throat, but then didn't continue.

"What is it?" John probed carefully, playing with an errant curl on Sherlock's head.

He heard Sherlock swallow, but he brought himself to ask. "Have you done this before? With Sholto?"

John didn't expect this question. He should have, considering the wedding, the awkwardness of their conversation, Sholto's reluctance, his guilt.

"He was my commander, as I already told you, but," John takes a deep breath. "I admired him. I always have. Not just physically, but many of us did. He was strong, especially personality wise, never let anyone put obstacles in his way. He was sort of unapproachable but never unjust, and I suppose that's why everyone liked him." John stopped for a moment.

"I did my best to gain his respect. That's all I'd ever get from him, at least that's what I thought. One night, he came back to the base with a graze. It was nothing, he said, but I took my time treating his wound. To my surprise, we started talking, actually talking, not just giving and receiving orders, and yeah, that was … I wanted to keep listening to his stories. He'd been a major for five years back then and had a lot to tell. I invited him back to mine after I'd finished treating him, and he accepted. We had a few drinks, well … we had a few too many probably, 'cause at some point– don't ask me who initiated it, but after a while, it just happened. He wanted to leave, I wanted him to stay although I'd never done with before with another bloke."

He looked down at Sherlock. "It happened twice more after that, but we never talked about it, and after he'd led that team of crows into battle and almost died on me during surgery, it simply seemed inappropriate to bring it up. Like I said, after this incident, people made his life a living hell. It didn't take long till he went back to England." He hesitated a little before he goes on. "I never truly thought about what it was between us or what it was that I wanted; if it was merely the army environment where it was normal to get off with your comrades in the communal shower every now and then or if it was more than that."

"I knew there was something about the way he looked at you at your wedding. Or the way you looked at him." Sherlock smiled slightly, but it seemed sad in a way. "I always assumed you weren't interested in men in general, being 'not gay' and whatnot, but when I saw you two on that day, …" 

John's heart broke in two right then. "You thought that I only didn't want _you_. Jesus, Sherlock." He cupped his face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss, so deep and so sensual that he hoped it would convey how wrong that was. "I wanted you for so long– and so much, you have no idea." His thumbs brushed over his prominent cheekbones. 

"You just couldn't let another man hurt you again even though he did it unintentionally," Sherlock concluded. "I understand it now, why you kept being so insistent."

John wanted to say so much more, but he didn't know how to voice those thoughts. Sherlock must have seen it because he smiled and shook his head as though to tell him it was all right, that he already knew and that he didn't need to hear John say anything else. Their lips found each other once again and their hands intertwined. When Sherlock pulled back, he whispered against his skin, "So he taught you any techniques you want to make use of, or …?"

"Hmm," John hummed and his smirk widened, "you bet."

.

.

.

“Anxious?” Sherlock teases, pulling him back to the here and now. “I’d say eager applies here.”

“Where are you going, then?” John smiles as his hands get to work on the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Nowhere now, obviously.”

"Good," John whispers and leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips, feeling the push and pull of their lips, and a buzzing feeling runs through his body. "You still make me shiver," he says, and Sherlock actually chuckles.

"The water is getting cold," Sherlock breathes as he runs his hands up and down John's sides, making him squirm a little. "We should hop in."

Sherlock gets in behind him, folding both arms around John's waist and pressing little kisses to his nape. John relaxes instantly in the warm water surrounding him. "God, that's perfect," he breathes out, letting his head fall back against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock's hands emerge from the water to run over John's chest and the scar on his shoulder. After all this time, John still twitches when someone touches it – but he's seen Sherlock's scars countless times as well, and while it saddens him to see them, he has accepted them as part of who they are. In the end, they are what made them what they are today, what brought them together.

"No, you are perfect," Sherlock grins against his hair.

"You are the cheesiest person I have ever known, and I would never have expected this of you, you of all people," John laughs.

“I am certainly not any of the things you are accusing me of.”

“What? A softie? Oh yes, you are.”

“Stop it.”

"Not a chance," John laughs, turning his head to smile up into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock smiles back – and oh, how John has come to love that wide, honest smile, a smile that makes Sherlock look truly happy and at peace with himself. John leans up to kiss him, and curls a hand around the back of Sherlock's head as well as he can without breaking his own spine in the small bathtub. 

Eventually, with Sherlock's hands on his body and Sherlock so close behind him, John's heartbeat speeds up.

He pulls away and sinks deeper into the water, sighing contentedly. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Should we get a nanny for Rosie?”

“A nanny.” It isn’t even a question.

“I just mean, you won’t stop taking cases, I certainly wouldn’t want you to, and Mrs Hudson isn’t getting any younger either.”

“Her hearing is still as good as it was in her twenties.”

John turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Judging by the way she smirked at me one morning when she brought up a full English.”

John’s expression must have seemed unreadable while it actually should have displayed shock and embarrassment.

"I'm referring to the morning when you went–"

“I know what you’re referring to, Jesus.”

“Who’s anxious now?” Sherlock laughs; that deep, vibrating laugh reverberates through the room.

“I’m not anxious. I’m just not exactly keen on our landlady knowing what we get up to in bed.”

Sherlock snorts, "Come on, John, as if she cares about what we're doing. The only thing she cares about is _that_ we're doing it. That she finally found peace knowing that we got where we are."

The colour in his cheeks fades a little. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“Exactly, so stop being so prude.”

John laughs in his face for that. “I’ll show you who the prude is as soon as we’re out of this tub.”

“Promises, promises,” Sherlock sighs dramatically, practically forcing John to press the wet sponge into his face.

 

.

.

.

 

The gentle scratch of the sponge on his skin feels blissful and too good not to be arousing. John blames it on his longstanding bottled-up attraction towards Sherlock rather than the newness of it all although that plays a part, too.

“You could do that all night,” he tells Sherlock.

“You’d get all wrinkly.”

“And start freezing when the water gets cold,” John answers, looking back over his shoulder.

“That, too.”

John smiles and turns around with a little difficulty. "Come on, my turn."

He runs the sponge over Sherlock’s clavicles, down over his pecs, his sternum. Sherlock meets his touches and leans in for a lingering, languid kiss, making John forget the sponge in his hand within a mere second.

Pulling back, he murmurs, “you’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“Harder, eh?” Sherlock grins and carefully nudges against John’s middle.

John breaks out in giggles, pushing the sponge against his chin. “Seriously. I’m in love with a twelve-year-old.”

That seems to catch Sherlock off-guard because all of a sudden his smile vanishes and the crow's feet around his eyes disappear. Has he gone rigid in his arms?

"Sorry, I didn't–"

“Did you mean it?”

“That you’re a twelve-year-old? Yes.” John tries to lighten the atmosphere. It doesn’t work.

Sherlock clicks his tongue. “You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do,” he cups Sherlock’s cheeks. “Of course I mean that." 

With no warning, Sherlock surges forward and kisses him hard, ardently, fervently. His lips part of their own accord, and it’s not long before upper lip is caught between Sherlock’s teeth and his tongue meets his own. His chest tingles; his middle tingles. With all his might, he manages to pull back once more. “I haven’t washed your back yet.”

“It’s not the most pressing issue at present, I think.”

“Unbelievable,” John snorts and leans in again.

Sherlock gets up eventually and steps out, handing John a towel. They make a quick job of drying themselves off, and with their hair still dripping slightly, they stumble into the bedroom and fall into bed. 

John is almost sure this won’t last long when Sherlock straddles his hips and grinds against him, but then they slow down. Their kisses turn into easy, sensual ones. Their fingers run carefully over heated skin, still warm from the bath. 

Sherlock’s lips depart and set off to slide alongside John’s jawline, his neck, right to the pulse point behind his ear. A moan escapes him when Sherlock nibbles against the delicate skin there.

John’s hands follow the lines and muscles on his back before they come to rest on his sides. He caresses him circling his thumbs.

“Say it again,” Sherlock whispers against the shell of his ear. A shiver runs through him

John turns his head; the corners of his lips curl upwards. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you.” His hands wander up to cup Sherlock’s face. He runs his fingers over those sharp cheekbones. “So much, and for so long.”

Sherlock’s smile almost breaks his heart into pieces. So does the kiss he pulls him into. John savours it, the soft brush against his tongue, the little pull at his bottom lip, the gentle fingertips grazing over his scalp all the while.

John’s thumb runs over Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone, caressing the rosy skin beneath it. There’s no rush anymore now. Just languid kisses and heavy breaths.

Sherlock presses kisses to John’s chin, the underside of his jaw, down to his neck and his collarbone. John’s fingers remain in the dark, messy mop of curly strands of hair. Sherlock gasps in pleasure whenever they grip his curls a little tighter. His tongue laps out and the small, innocent kisses turn into wet, open-mouthed ones. 

His lips brush over John's nipple, making John keen quietly as wet heat meats the cool skin where it peaks out. "God …"

Sherlock lifts his head a little and looks up at him. “I thought we’d established to stick to first names, John.”

John bursts into a laugh and cannot help but pull Sherlock back up to kiss him breathlessly, not knowing how to control the kiss with all the giggles that escape him. "Truly unbelievable," he murmurs against his mouth.

He pushes Sherlock onto his back and kisses his way down to his chest, brushing his lips over the skin that now covers the wound of a bullet breaching his torso, an injury that has healed and left a scar behind. It is not the only scar Sherlock's skin bears. They're on his back, omnipresent, always tangible under his fingertips whenever they're intimate. He knows their stories now, the story of each and every single one of them. They are the evidence of all the pain they had to endure, the time they had to spend apart, the people who wanted to come between them but never managed to. To John, they brought regret and guilt as he first saw them when he helped Sherlock recover after Mary shot him. He didn't dare to ask about them back then. He wishes he had; it would have opened his eyes sooner. Sherlock would have been spared the pain through which John had put him in the aftermath of his return to Mary. His own anger would not have been directed at the wrong person. Of course, Sherlock has kept assuring him that every wound had been worth it – the ones he had acquired before his return to London and the ones after. Although John still feels doubt about that, he works hard on not letting it cloud his mind anymore, on believing in the two of them, what they lost and what they gained instead, despite the scars their bodies exhibit now. Maybe they had to be threatened, hurt, bruised, and almost get themselves killed to see what they mean to each other. Perhaps only the risk of losing the most important person in one another's life was the force that cleared their visions and empowered them to overcome their doubts of what they felt and whether those feelings were doomed or not. What mattered is that they're alive, breathing, panting against each other's skin, feeling the hot air between them, seeing the other smile, beam, be happy.

John kisses Sherlock’s scar once, twice more before he moves down further to Sherlock’s abdomen, his hipbones, his groin. Sherlock’s body writhes underneath his touch, raising his hips involuntarily. His moans fill the quiet room.

“John,” he exhales sharply, but before he can say any more, wet heat engulfs Sherlock’s aching erection, and he swallows down a curse audibly. A loud groan escapes his lips when John hollows his cheeks to increase the intensity. “Oh … oh God–“

John pulls off with a smirk, hovering just above him. “I thought we’d established to stick to first names,” he echoes Sherlock’s words from just a few moments prior. 

Sherlock gasps out a laugh, but can't keep his hips from bucking upwards once more. Grinning, John trails his lips over his belly, slowly, teasing, and presses open-mouthed kisses over his skin. Sherlock's fingers grip the sheets in anticipation, widening the grin on John's lips. His head falls back against the soft pillow, breathing unevenly. His eyes close as soon as he feels John's mouth on him again. He engulfs the tip first, licking, sucking, swirling his tongue through the pre-come. He watches Sherlock all the time. He knows his reactions by now; what makes him squirm, moan, writhe under his hands, his fingertips, his mouth, his tongue.

Sherlock lifts his hips up, seeking, wanting, but John’s hands press him down against the mattress firmly. He moans; John knows he’s aching for more. His thumbs caress Sherlock’s hips. His hands slide up to his waist once, twice. Goosebumps appear on his skin.

John’s mouth moves lower,

 

lower,

 

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_w_

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until he can't take any more of him inside. He makes up for the rest with his hand, stroking him in the same rhythm as he moves his head. Sherlock's legs fall open wider. There is no trace of his reticence, his hesitance and his coyness from the early days they did this together.

“Fff– fuck, Jo– Johnnnn– ah!”

John moans around him. Sherlock can’t keep still. He presses into the heat of John’s mouth, seeking more friction. John uses his tongue, rubs it along his shaft. The knuckles of Sherlock’s fingers still gripping the sheets turn white. “Ohh, God, ohgodohGOD, John!” he gasps, his chest is heaving.

John's hands wander along his thighs, brushing over the milk-white skin before they come back up to his arse, squeezing, kneading the soft flesh. More and more moans escape Sherlock's throat until he arches his back. John would smile if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied. His other hand reaches for Sherlock's. They find each other without difficulty; fingers intertwine and squeeze tightly. His other hand stays where it is, and his fingers close around his drawn-up testicles, fondling them gently in his hand while his thumb runs carefully over his perineum, making Sherlock keen beneath him. "Like that, ha, yes. Yes! Hmm …" John reaches further back until he finds his entrance and rubs over it

 

s     l     o     w     l     y     .

 

Sherlock whimpers, swallowing hard. He lets out shallow breaths, and John feels that he is on the very edge, but then groans and squeezes his hand even more firmly. “Wait, John nngg, ah, wait, wait. Oh God.”

He pulls off of him quickly, releasing his erection.

Panting, he asks, "What's wrong, love?"

“Nothing, oh God, nothing. I just–“ He has trouble catching his breath, so John waits patiently. His fingers trail over his shin slowly nonetheless. Sherlock leans onto his elbows and reaches for him, pulling him into a breathy, uncoordinated kiss. “I want,” he whispers against his lips. “I want you. All of you.”

John releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You mean–“

“Yes,” Sherlock folds both arms around John’s back. “I want you inside me.”

John inhales sharply when his own erection is trapped between Sherlock’s body and his own. He has ignored his own aching hard-on so far. “You–“

“God, yes, John, _please_ ,” Sherlock keens. “I’m sure, I want this. If you’re up for it, that is.”

“You can bet your arse that I’m up for it,” John chuckles, infecting Sherlock with his laugh.

“I’d rather keep my arse for prospective future activities,” he teases, wiggling a little underneath John’s body.

John laughs and kisses his sweaty forehead before he reaches up, opens their bedside drawer and retrieves the lube. “Give me that pillow over there,” he says. Sherlock complies and lifts his hips, having already guessed John’s thoughts. John places it beneath them and then squeezes a considerable amount of lube into his palm to warm it up a little. “You’ll tell me if–“

“It’s too uncomfortable, yes. We’ve had this conversation, remember?”

“Bossy tonight, are we?” John asks as he kisses his thigh, teasing him with his teeth, nibbling gently.

“Hmm,” Sherlock moans. “You love it, admit it.”

John smiles against his skin and presses his fingers Sherlock’s entrance, circling it at a leisure pace. Sherlock’s knees twitch at the touch. He gasps and holds his breath when John breaches him with the first finger. “All right?” he asks.

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he breathes. “Keep going.”

John moves slowly, works his finger in – up to the first knuckle, then the second, until it's buried inside him, feeling how Sherlock's muscles clench up around his index finger. He probes with care, pressing, pushing forwards and backwards steadily. Then he pulls out, adds more lube and pushes back in with two fingers. Sherlock arches his back.

“How does it feel?” John asks.

"Weird, good, but also …"

“But also?"

“Get up here.”

John tastes his smile on his tongue. It’s sweet and lovely and warm. Their lips part instinctively, pulling, pressing, nibbling delicately. Smooth and tender. John keeps moving his fingers gingerly – in and out. His free fingers wander over his side, eliciting little moans from Sherlock. He’s quavering beneath him.

John pulls back a moment to marvel at his sight. Dark curls against the innocent whiteness of the pillow. Alabaster skin covered in a thin film of sweat, parted lips glistening in the dim of the light, kaleidoscope eyes with pupils blown wide, almost swallowing their colour. Arousal is written all over his face; palpable by the fingers digging into his back, into his waist, nails grazing his skin.

He kisses him once more, deeply. Sherlock’s tongue is wet and willing, pliant like his entire body and yet insistent. “John,” he half breathes, half moans, bearing down on his fingers and pulling him closer.

Their sealed lips separate, and John sits up to coat his fingers with lube once more. Three this time. It can be quite an uncomfortable business if done for the first time, which is why preparation is even more important, besides the risk of tearing sensitive spots within him. The last thing John wants is hurt him again.

Sherlock must have suspected what he is thinking because he says, “You won’t hurt me.”

“Stop reading my thoughts.”

“I told you I dabble in it,” Sherlock grins up at him.

John shakes his head, and his eyes crinkle as his lips curl into an impish smile. "Let me show you what I dabble in." With that, he presses his fingers in deeper until he reaches Sherlock's prostate.

“Oh God, ohhh … John! John!!” 

John watches his reaction from where he’s sitting between Sherlock’s parted thighs. He kisses his knee once. “Knew that would shut you up,” he leers, smirking smugly as he brushes lightly over it in agonisingly slow circles.

“John, fff– sss … ah! Sss – stop, or I’ll–“

Brought him to full hardness without even touching him once, which is definitely something to keep in mind for future reference, John thinks self-complacently.

“Is that so?” he asks lewdly, pressing against the gland one last time before letting his fingers retreat for now.

“You …,” Sherlock pants, “are a very bad man.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” John tells him, looking pleased. He massages and relaxes Sherlock’s muscles a little further, a little longer, for a few more torturously

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moments until Sherlock nudges him with his foot and groans. His cock is leaking onto his stomach, glistening in the dim light, dark and red and absolutely exquisite as it rests against his milk-white skin. It’s almost obscene.

"John …" It comes out in what sounds close to a sob. John can't hide his smile, kissing the inside of his thigh once more, twice more, before pulling back and removing his fingers with caution. Sherlock grimaces in slight discomfort, and John catches it immediately. "All right?"

“Yes, it’s– go slow.”

“Of course,” John assures him, but then he hesitates.

Sherlock has already read his thoughts, though. Obviously. “Second drawer,” he tells him. John reaches forward and opens it.

“Well someone’s prepared, I see,” John chuckles quietly as he reaches for a condom.

“Shut up. I meant to use those for experiments to test the extent of decomposability and time to de–“

John kisses all the words from his lips. “Sure you were.”

"I was!" Sherlock protests. "I knew you'd want to be protected, though, so I went ahead to save myself the discussion about the risk of STDs," he rolls his eyes, "but, to be honest, I assumed we were exclusive so we wouldn't need–"

“Being exclusive doesn’t reduce the risks of STDs–“

“Of which we’re both clean,” Sherlock cuts in and then sighs, running a hand through his still wet hair. “Just put it on and don’t spoil the moment talking about doctor-y points of controversy; there’s time for that later. And now, get on with it.”

John laughs, watching him reverently and fondly. He rolls on the condom, giving himself two or three strokes, and leans forward, hovering above Sherlock and kissing the tip of his nose, his cheekbone, and finally his lips. “I love you, too,” he grins sweetly.

Sherlock’s hands wander over his sides, smiling. He’s still amazed John would say it out loud so often; John will make sure to let him hear it whenever he wants to, just to see this smile, the spark in his eyes, the blush deepening in colour on his cheeks as often as he can. Right now though, the expression in Sherlock’s eyes grows impatient. 

“Like this?”

Sherlock nods, brushing their noses together and pulling his knees up. John lubes himself up, lines up and pushes in, slowly, carefully, inch by inch. The sensation is amazing; it’s tight and hot and wet and phenomenal. He’s not even halfway inside Sherlock, but he has to stop to take inhale deeply, to give Sherlock a moment, too. The air seems to have lost all its oxygen. He’s breathing heavily.

Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut; little wrinkles have appeared between his them as though he’s concentrating profoundly. John pushes a little deeper, moaning as the heat of Sherlock’s engulfs him, takes him inside.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock pants, and his eyes fly open. His eyes are glassy, his pupils dilated, and his cheekbones are covered in a rosy blush.

“Hmm …” John exhales with a growl, working his way in further, drawing back and forward, thrusting experimentally. His skin prickles at the sensation.

Sherlock winds his legs around John’s waist, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

They both groan when he is completely buried inside Sherlock. “Oh my … God,” Sherlock breathes, repeating himself. John smiles, and gives him a few moments to adjust. It doesn’t take long before he tells him to move, so John does.

He draws back, pulling out almost completely. Sherlock’s nails rake across his back, certainly leaving marks, but John can’t even bother to care because this is the most intense sensation he has ever felt. “God, Sherlock, you’re …” he begins when he pushes back in. “Ahh … you’re amazing. You … feel amazing …”

Sherlock keens beneath him, encouraging him to keep moving. “Don’t stop,” he whimpers. “Don’t sss… ah, don’t bloody stop.”

“Not a chance,” John smirks, and lowers his head to kiss his cleavage, his neck, tasting the saltiness on his tongue, until he finds his lips again, but soon it’s too fast, too messy, too uncoordinated to keep kissing back properly and their kisses get lost in deep moans, loud groans, low mumbles, and sweet nothings. With every thrust, Sherlock’s erection trapped between their sweaty bodies finds the friction he needs. His erratic keening turns into incessant gasps, drawn-out whines, strangled hums.

Sherlock pulls his legs up further until they come to rest on John's shoulders; he's seeking the right angle but not quite finding it. John has found his prostate with his fingers before; he would again, just a little more …

He lowers Sherlock's legs until his knees reach his chest and rest against it, and Sherlock cries out loud as his eyes roll back until his lids fall shut. _Found it_ , John thinks, pleased.

“Fuck … ohohoh OH! John! Johhnnn!”

“I’ve got you, love,” he breathes. “I’ve got you.”

The pace picks up; their pleasure grows more intent and louder. John hits Sherlock’s prostate with every roll of his hips; every thrust. Sherlock clings to him, holding on for dear life. He quivers, trembles and jerks underneath John’s body as he huffs against John’s neck. 

John is close, _so_ close. His thighs are trembling; his arms are starting to as well. It’s getting harder to hold himself up and keep up their rhythm. His movements become desperate, frantic even. 

He reaches between their heaving bodies to take Sherlock in hand and begins to stroke in the same rhythm of his thrusts. The moan he provokes is something that will presumably haunt him forever. Sherlock’s fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, but it only turns him on further. “Yes, God, yes, yes, … Sherlock.”

“Jooohnnn …” Sherlock draws out his name. He’s on the edge, just a few steps away, a few strokes, a few thrusts until he’ll fall.

“That’s it, just let go,” John rasps into Sherlock’s ear. His curls have against into his forehead, resting in a mixture of sweat and water from the bath.

“I … I’m, … oh _God! Ohhh…_ ”

Sherlock's muscles clench around him, and warm, sticky release runs over John's hand, gathering in the pool of pre-come on Sherlock's belly.

"Keep going, Jo– keep going, please …" 

John loses his rhythm for good now; it doesn't take long, one, two, three, four more thrusts before the dam breaks and he's falling. As though he's flying, soaring back to the ground, into the cold water and diving into the depth of the sea. He sees stars, he's sure, and his body tingles all over and within him. His vision blurs, he feels dizzy by the intensity of it, his knees almost buckle, but he keeps going, keeps pushing inside him and drawing back, stroking Sherlock through the aftershocks, stopping before oversensitivity sets in.

Finally, he collapses on top of Sherlock, panting, gulping. Sherlock’s chest rises and falls just as wildly as his own. Their hands find one another; fingers intertwine of their own accord.

After a short while, John shifts to pull out carefully and rests his head on Sherlock’s chest. It takes an eternity to fill their lungs with enough oxygen to find their voices again. “That – that was – phenomenal,” Sherlock tells him; his voice sounds rough and hoarse. John looks up at him. His lips are reddened and swollen. He’s smiling, and his smile is contagious. It always has been. 

“You were,” John says in return. “You always are.”

“Stop underestimating yourself,” Sherlock huffs out a laugh, winding both arms around him tightly and burying his fingers in his hair. He pulls him up and kisses him lazily but lovingly nonetheless. 

“No empty promises tonight, then?” John teases him as he rests his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock purses his lips as though he has to think about that first. “Hmm, no, I suppose it wasn’t _empty_.”

“Idiot,” John chuckles and kisses him again before he rolls off of him to get up, pop into the bathroom and grab a towel. He cleans himself perfunctorily and returns to the bedroom, handing a wet cloth and a towel to Sherlock who makes quick work of it. Both land in the middle of the bathroom floor. ”You probably woke up the entire house,” is what John tells him as he gets back into bed.  
  
“Me?” Sherlock looks exasperated.

"Yes, you. I'm surprised Rosie's not awake yet. Mrs Hudson surely is."

“I’ll try to care about that in the morning,” Sherlock answers with a shrug, yawning and probably feeling nothing but blasé about everything John has just said. The man is unbelievable. He nestles up to John, wrapping himself around him like a snake.

John watches him fondly. With his eyes are closed and his even breathing, he’s on the verge of falling asleep. John runs his hand through the soft, tangled curls. “I love you, you brilliant, gorgeous man.”

Sherlock’s arms tighten around him as he lifts his head and kisses him; it’s so reverent and so passionate that it conveys more than words ever could. It’s enough for John. So much more than enough.

Winning a person back is never easy. Not when you have hurt them, not when they have threatened to fall apart with you only being able to stand by and watch. It’s difficult, and you need a lot of patience – but, God, how worth everything has been in the end. They have lost each other, but found each other again, too.

And this time, it’s forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading all the way to the end! 
> 
> It's been a hell of a ride but we had so much fun writing this little fix-it, and we hope you enjoyed it. We would love to know what you think one last time :)


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